


Punishing The Punished

by Emma_Please



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Angst, BAMF Peter, BAMF Stiles, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Death, Fluff, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Mating- possibly, Multi, Nice Pack, Nice Peter, No Stiles and Scott childhood friendship, Other, Pack Dynamics, Sassy Peter, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Steter - Freeform, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Hieronim, Stiles was not pack, it means sacred name or warrior or a lot of other things, more so than I originally imagined
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Please/pseuds/Emma_Please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Assembly of Magic has decided that Stiles should be punished for his actions. His punishment is to live and serve the Hale<br/>pack as their new emissary. He can only come back home after two years.  The Hale pack isn't sure what to expect when they meet their new emissary. All they really know is that he like curly fries. And that he has a certain love for calling his dad a stripper.</p><p>(On Hiatus. Frankly, I've lost quite a bit of interest in this story, so I'm leaving it alone for now. When I started I had no clear path and so the story is filled with a lot of plot holes. I'm thinking of a re-write, for now, however, it is on Hiatus. Sorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> First Multi-chaptered fic. This AU has a magical Stiles who lives in a small town, eventually, he gets caught for something and a trial is held. He ends up going to the Hale pack to serve them. This involves Slash as well as some death and angst.  
> There is Latin in this but the translations are bold. I'm not sure if the Latin is right.

When the first day of his trial commenced, Stiles had been subjected to waiting in a chair until the Assembly decided if he was innocent or not.

Now, on the last day of his trial, he has been subjected to once again wait in the very same chair, but this time, it is so much more nerve-wracking. The Assembly is taking their sweet, sweet time.

The Assembly is made up of ancient men (Stiles can’t help but think ‘Sexist much’), who wear tattered robes and walk around with canes, forcing their ideas down people’s throats. His first thought of them is that they aren’t very modern, neither with magic nor with politics, and Stiles isn’t ready to subject himself to their bitching and moaning about how the magical world has declined in numbers; he knows this already.

Deaton had told him that they held a very important position in the magical world and that they could help him find the balance in himself. But the thing is, Stiles has had enough of Deaton’s ‘balance’ and ‘you must find it in yourself before you expect it in others’ crap, and for once, Stiles wants a proper answer, not some cryptic shit that could get him killed.

So he waits in the terribly uncomfortable chair and hopes to all Gods that his mentor won’t kill him when she finds out the news. Erynn Alexeyeva isn’t known for her patience, and it usually comes to show when she’s dealing with Stiles, and with the amount of trouble he’s in, it won’t be pretty.

Minute after minute pass slowly, and Stiles finds himself shifting in the chair, propping his legs up on the arm of the chair, eyeing the bodyguards curiously before going back to staring at the door. After two more long and vicious hours, the Assembly finally finishes their meeting, coming into the room to find Stiles completely upside down, head almost touching the ground.

He shoots up, arms flailing in an attempt to find balance. Finally, he straightens himself and looks towards the Assembly questioningly. They look upon him with unimpressed looks, finding his behavior absolutely offensive.

“Hieronim Stilinski.” An Assembly member at the front announces, ordering him to stand. “Congregamini, respondetur quod in innocentem, tamen quia fornicata es in hac ratione, puniendus. **The Assembly has agreed that you are innocent, however, because you played a part in this scheme, you must be punished.** ” The Latin words roll off the Elders tongue smoothly, and it takes a moment before Stiles can realize what the man has just said.

Before stiles can protest and question why he’s being punished, the Elder sends him a glare, daring him to interrupt. So Stiles shuts his mouth, eyes hard as he stares at the Elder, waiting for him to continue.

“Servulae suggessit ut faciat servire extra civitatem pravis. Sarcina Hala. **The druid suggested we send you out of town so that you may serve a pack. The Hale pack** ”

Stiles has a heard of them; the Hale pack. They live up in Beacon Hills, and it is said that half of them aren’t even originally from the Hale family, just the Alpha and his nephew. Why Deaton would suggest them, Stiles doesn’t know, but what he does know is that this little punishment won’t end well. Stiles father is also in Beacon Hills, and Stiles dreads having to see him again, only because last time it had been when he was eight, and Claudia Stilinski had died.

Right when Stiles’ thoughts turn towards a darker path, the Elder pipes up again. “Credit quod partem rei familiaris et imperitos docete pravis moribus melius. Quia dimisit te Dominus crescere sinit etiam vestros et discere nova. Vobisque notum est donec veniret annua deinde pro contione edixerat, qui in duos annos. **He believes being part of a pack will better your behavior and teach you of family. Sending you away will also allow for you to expand your magic and learn new things. You are forbidden from coming back until the next Annual Assembly, which will be in two years’ time.** ”

The Elders continue to look upon him with distaste, probably believing that he should be punished severely just because he broke some rules. Stiles can’t help but find it rich that they are telling him to learn more about family when they themselves have probably gone years without speaking to their own. It doesn’t matter that he and his dad don’t talk, he’s perfectly fine with Erynn and Martin, as well as his sparse few friends.

One of the younger Elders looks upon him with pity, mistaking his anger for hurt, so he settles for saying;

 “Cogita non quasi poenam, sed quasi a eruditio experientia. Hoc valebat, Hieronim, uti ea. **Think of this not as a punishment, but as a learning experience. This is an adventure, Hieronim, take advantage of it.** ” The Elder taps his cane forward, beckoning Stiles closer, and when Stiles is almost a foot away, he taps the can again, signaling for him to stop.

The Elder raises the cane, and taps the end against Stiles chest, right where his heart lies. This action is usually a blessing, and a good luck to the person being tapped. It is rarely done these days, seeing as the Assembly seldom takes visitors. Stiles is shocked, absolutely stunned that an Assembly member would give him their blessing; less than a minute ago they were negotiating his punishment.

They send him off with a signed contract and a rune burned into his skin, one that will prevent him from stepping foot back into the town until it is time. When he goes home, Erynn and Martin (Erynn’s husband) greet him cautiously, trying to gouge his emotions from his facial features, but Stiles keeps a poker face on until he is alone in his room.

Now alone, he allows himself to finger the rune on his arm and wonder what the Hale pack are like, and if his dad will be happy to see him.


	2. Elixir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes through some angst and talks to Erynn and Deaton. The pack will come in next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erynn is Stiles mentor, she won't have a very big part in this story. Deaton is still a cryptic little shit. Thank you so much for the nice comments, I really appreciated those. The pack will be introduced in the next chapter, and this chapter gives you some background information, but not a lot. Also, it's not very long, promise next chapter will be longer.  
> Only 1002 words (I'm ashamed). 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf.

The moment Stiles wakes up, he knows he’s a dead man. He’s going to have to explain himself to Erynn, as well as visit Deaton, and pack his stuff, which will no doubt consist of mainly books.

Knowing that Erynn’s wrath will soon be upon him, he takes his time dressing and fixing his bed, opening up his window and all around procrastinating. When he finally hears the front door slam, he tip toes down the stairs, and walks into the kitchen.

Instead of a warm breakfast and an empty kitchen, he’s greeted by the sight of a stern Erynn standing in the middle of the room. The thing that scares Stiles the most is that she’s holding a rolling pin; one that will undoubtly be making contact with his head soon.

“Morning, Stiles,” She greets cheerfully, giving him a false smile. “I hope you like eggs, sausages and toast.” She twirls the rolling pin expertly in her hand, before smacking it against her palm. Stiles flinches, eyeing the rolling pin fearfully.

“Yeah, that sounds great.” He replies, before taking the seat that's farthest away from her; better safe than sorry. At least he was going to get in a good breakfast before she killed him.

“That’s good,” Erynn lets the rolling pin drop in front of her as she takes the seat across from him. “Because you’re going to be making us breakfast.”

Stiles sighs, his shoulders drooping in disappointment; he really should have known better. Getting up from the chair, he made his way around the counter, and started setting up the pans, cracking the eggs and dividing the breakfast into two portions. Once he's finished, Stiles set Erynn’s plate in front of her and goes to sit across from her.

They eat quietly, and Stiles begins to wonder if she has forgotten what day it was, or maybe she is letting him have some peace before she slaughters him mercilessly. He thinks it’s probably the latter.

“Hieronim,” Stiles stills, lifting his head slowly because if she is calling him his real name, than she's serious. “I know you stole the elixir.” Stiles inhales sharply, causing him to choke on the food. Erynn waited patiently while he coughed, banging a fist against his chest to help him breathe.

“I just don’t know why. So many years, so much hard work, and you threw it all away for an elixir?” She gazes at him imploringly, questioning him for an answer. “I don’t understand why you would require such a thing.”

Stiles pauses, thinking over his explanation and reason. When he coann’t find a proper answer, he settled for;

“You wouldn’t see it the way I see it. You’ve grown up in a magical society where everyone and everything accepts you,” He quieted, searching for more words. “You’ve never had people call you freak, or throw things at you, or... or… or tell your dad that you’re a freak of nature and that you should just die.”  Stiles’ head falls onto the counter, eyes closing shut in an effort to keep the tears at bay. Above him he can hear Erynn gasp. Erynn has never had to go threw discrimination because she was raised in a magical community, one where everyone was alike.

“This elixir was my way out,” He pipes up, head still pressed against the counter. “This elixir was going to take away all the bad memories and leave me blank. This was my way out without having to die.” Stiles can feel the tears slide down his cheeks, dripping onto his hands. There’s no point in trying to rub them away, he’ll still feel just as bad.

They lapse back into silence, neither having the strength to speak. To Stiles, the silence is stifling, weighing down on him like a thousand bricks. He doesn’t want to talk anymore; doesn’t want to explain something that only he will understand. Slowly, Erynn lifts her hand and lays it down on his shoulder, giving a light squeeze before exiting the room, leaving him to his own thoughts.

After a few minutes, he stands, head bowed and gaze low, he walks up to his room sluggishly. Every bone in his body wants to rest, physically and emotionally exhausted. Once he reaches the door, he pauses, head lifting to stare at the hard wood, hand gripping the door handle tighter until his knuckles are white.  

He’s going to change this. If the Assembly wants him to come back a changed man; then he’ll come back a changed man, and if the Assembly doesn’t like it, they can go fuck themselves. Stiles isn’t going to be some broken doll that wants to die. No. He’s going to get stronger, both physically and emotionally. No more elixirs. No more crying. No more whining about his childhood. He’s going to take all the weight on his shoulder and bear it like a man.

With a change of heart, he steps into the room and slams the door behind him, before immediately going to his closet. Flinging the doors open he grabs a bag and starts piling in all his clothes, ranging from ratty t-shirts to vests (all good mages have vests). Once he’s finished, he grabs another bag before carefully piling his books into it, making sure that no pages fold over or become wrinkled.

When he’s finally done packing, Stiles flies down the stairs, sticks a goodbye note for Martin and Erynn, and sets out for Deaton’s hotel. Sure, it’s pretty shitty to say goodbye in a post-it-note, but with all the heavy stuff he and Erynn were just talking about, he can’t bear to say goodbye.

When he makes it to the hotel Deaton’s staying at, the older man is already waiting for him outside, a travel pack slung over one shoulder.

“Morning Stiles,” He greets, raising a hand in hello. “I hope you’re ready.” The underlying ‘Are you okay?’ is easily heard.

Stiles shrugs, and they begin their trek towards the train station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter'll be up soon. I'm trying to update daily or weekly because I know how frustrating it is to wait.


	3. Past Unveiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles explains more of his background to Deaton. Peter and the pack ponder on what Stiles is like. Stiles looks through the packs files.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer than the last one (2054). Also, I have something to say about the comments on my last chapter: 
> 
> First: Rena, I did not take your comment as aggressive and yes, the last chapter was kind of like a filler. I appreciate the constructive criticism, and I took it mind. I'm hoping this chapter gives you more information on Stiles' background. 
> 
> Second: thank you catylon for defending me against what you thought was an aggressive comment, and I'm glad you like the story. I appreciate that you are telling me to ignore the haters (though I don't think Rena was hating) and keep going forward. 
> 
> I know both of you were defending yourselves, and I can understand that, but I would hope that there aren't any more arguments in the comment section. I can't order you not to argue and defend your beliefs, the comment section is for expressing yourselves. I just hope that you guys have settled your differences. 
> 
> For any new readers, I hope you're enjoying so far! Actual Pack meeting next chapter (I promise!!)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf

The train station is empty. Absolutely barren. Stiles would be worried if this wasn’t a regular occurrence. The station rarely gets used, and Stiles is tempted to ask Deaton how he got someone to man the train. It’s actually kind of nice, the lack of crowding and waiting, although Stiles wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to. He knows talking to Deaton won’t help, it’ll probably just make him even more miserable.

They settle down into a booth, and almost immediately, the train begins moving. They sit in empty silence before Stiles begins tapping his foot, ADHD kicking in. The tapping turns into humming, before it transforms into fingers dancing over the table, almost as though the table is a piano, and Stiles is doing anything he can to make some sort of sound.

Eventually, Deaton’s infinite patience become less infinite and more human. Finally, the older man heaves a sigh, looking over at Stiles before speaking;

“Mind telling me the full story,” The fingers continue to dance over the table. “Stiles, talking to someone who isn’t biased might help you.” The fingers stop, stilling in a position like a statue.

Stiles wants to. Really, really, really wants to tell Deaton what he’s gone through; what he’s going through. Everyone else is biased, claiming that what he did is wrong, and that no one would want to willingly erase their memories. That’s why Stiles refuses to say more than a few lines. He’s still quite wary of Deaton, the man is a druid, born into magic, and so he might also have the thoughts that others have, but on the other hand, Deaton is neutral, refusing to side in the argument. Stiles make a decision, and if Deaton decides to betray him; there will be hell to pay.

“I was four,” Stiles starts, and Deaton listens with rapt attention. “My… my mother was still alive. We were at the park, and she left me in the sandbox, told me to make friends and play with other kids.” He pauses, eyes glazing as he’s taken back to the memory. His mother’s young, fresh face still haunts him, refusing to relinquish the hold it has on his nightmares. “One of the mothers… she saw me make the sand move.” Seeing Deaton’s raised eyebrow, Stiles hurries to clarify. “It wasn’t anything major; more like making the sand shift slightly so it went in my bucket. The woman freaked out, started shouting and pointing at me, saying that I made the sand move, and that I was some devil child.”  

“Even as a child you had strict control over your magic.” Deaton murmurs, eyeing Stiles in poorly-concealed curiosity. The prospect of seeing powerful magic in the act is tempting, but Deaton refrains from asking, knowing Stiles isn’t in the right frame of mind.

“My mother convinced the woman she was seeing things, and the town people waved it off, labeling it as an accident or hallucination. The next incident happened when I was 6, and my dad had taken us camping. My mother’s condition had begun worsening, and he believed it was time for us to go on a vacation. We were camping with another family because one of them worked with my dad. It was around the second day, and I had somehow managed to entrance the snake and make it move for me. I was humming something, and I think the man thought I was some sort of demon, because the next thing I know, he’s telling my dad what he saw me do and that I should be purified.” Stiles shakes his head, thinking back to how the man had been stupid enough to believe that Stiles’ dad would actually believe him. “Anyways, after that incident people stopped brushing it off, and some people would straight up call me freak.”

Stiles stops, talking in a deep breath before staring into Deaton’s eyes and stating;

“If you tell anyone this, I _will_ know.” The fire in Stiles’ eyes remind Deaton of Hell Fire; sinister, evil, but oh-so righteous. Stiles resembles a wrathful Deity, waiting for the moment where he will encase the world in chaos. He’s powerful enough to stare Deaton into submission.

Realizing that Deaton is aware of where he stands in this deal, Stiles continues, “When my mother died, my father drowned himself in whiskey and beer. By that time I was eight, and everybody in town believed I was some sort of monster and avoided me. When my dad was drunk and mourning my mom, he got a call,” Stiles stops, shuddering while breathing haggardly. “The caller said ‘Your freak of a son killed your wife and you should probably just kill him already, I bet it will make your life easier.” Voice cracking in the middle of the sentence, Stiles stops, breathing in deeply before releasing. Deaton waited patiently while Stiles continued to inhale and exhale.

“I thought… I though dad would ignore it, like he always did, but no. No… he came in to my room and told me that I killed mom, and that I should just disappear and die.” Stiles glances down. “He said no one wanted me anyway, and that even… that even mom hadn’t actually loved me.

“I know he was drunk, but it hurt _so_ much. So I took some money, packed my bags, and the moment he fell asleep: I was gone.”

“So you tried to steal the elixir, and forget.” Deaton sums up, looking as though he’s contemplating something. “Why didn’t you just use a simple spell?”

“Spells like those wear off, and none of them are quite as powerful.” Stiles answers, eyes staring out the window. “The elixir was permanent.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?” Deaton knows Stiles isn’t telling him the full story, and that if it was up to him, Deaton would probably still be in the dark.

“Not right now, but maybe some other day.” Stiles yawns, knowing full well that it’s a lie, and by the unimpressed stare Deaton sends his way, he’s not exactly impressed either.

Stiles doesn’t care though. All he want to do now is sleep and forget about all his problems.

* * *

 

The pack is useless. Absolutely useless. No matter what Peter orders, the brats insist on simply lying on the sofa’s, drinking beer and watching T.V; it’s like they have nothing better to do but disobey Peter’s orders, and finish his beer.

Peter is desperately trying to think of something that will make them get up, or obey. Even Derek, his ever present right hand man, who is up and ready before Peter had even ordered something, is now lying on a couch, watching the ongoing T.V show with little interest.

“Alright you lazy asses!” Peter exclaims. “I’ve got some news and whether you like it or not, you’re going to obey me and listen.” Just to make sure they listen, he lets some red bleed into his eyes, making them straighten in attention.

Satisfied, Peter continues, “Our emissary will be arriving soon, and I wanted you to know about him.” The packs heads snap up in unison, and scarily so. Peter has half the mind to call this meeting off with the way they’re staring at him, but because he’s just as crazy as they are, he continues;

“I’ve got a document here,” He waves a file in the air. “And we’re going to go through it and see what he’s like.”

Standing up, the pack huddle around the round coffee table, leaning over the table to look at the file. Peter opens it, setting it in the middle so everyone can take a look. The first thing Peter see’s is the picture of a boy, barely a man. His eyes are a bright amber, almost gold, and he’s got a set of dark brown hair. The guy is covered in moles, everywhere he looks; Peter can spot a dark mark. It’s only a face shot, but with the way the boy is smiling cheekily at the camera, Peter knows he’s mischievous.

“He’s twenty-five,” Lydia says blankly. “Either he’s very talented, or the Assembly is giving us a weakling.” Peter can understand her logic, and they’ve really got nothing substantial in the file.

“Don’t just judge him, Lydia!” Scott defends. “You haven’t even seen him in action!”

None of them are really surprised, seeing as Scott is a bleeding heart and will defend anyone if he thinks they deserve it. So far, they know nothing about this boy, and for all they know, he might be a serial killer, but for some reason, Peter doubts it, seeing as Deaton is bringing him over.

While Lydia and Scott continue to bicker over the new emissary, Peter announces, “Deaton is bringing him over today, so we’ll know when we meet him. Besides, his name has to be somewhere on this file.” This catches their attention, finally noticing that the file gives them no information on his name. Going through the file, they find his name at the end, near the right corner.

“Stiles… Stilinski,” Peter reads out loud. “Stilinski… Stilinski… ah, I know where I’ve heard that name before.” Peter announces, looking over at the Pack. When he sees their blank faces, he sighs, internally rolling his eyeballs, he questions when his pack became so stupid.

In the background, he can hear Erica go, “Who names their child Stiles?”

“The Sheriff's last name is Stilinski.” Peter declares, ignoring the packs befuddled looks.

“No way… No way,” Lydia breathes, finally realizing what it means.

“Didn’t Sheriff Stilinski’s child go missing years ago?” Scott asks, looking at Peter and Derek imploringly. “Do you really think this is him?” Nobody has an answer.

“It would explain the weird things they said about him.” Derek pipes up. “All those times someone said they saw him move sand, or enchant a snake. People got suspicious, and then, on the day Claudia Stilinski died, Stiles disappeared. They say he ran away.” They are all ensnared in the story, waiting with bated breathes for Derek to say something else. But he doesn’t, and they all go back to wondering if Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

* * *

 

When Stiles wakes up, Deaton’s set a couple of files in front of him and told him to leaf through them.

The first file is the Alpha, Peter Hale. He’s thirty-five, with black hair and blue eyes, and he became an Alpha after his sister, Talia Hale, died.

The second is Derek Hale, Peter’s right hand man, with the same black hair and blue eyes. He’s a Beta, and the son of Talia.

Scott McCall is a Beta, and not originally from the pack. He’s tan and bright eyed. The boy looks young and innocent, as though he wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Allison Argent is not what Stiles expected. She’s a hunter but she’s part of the pack. As young as Scott, as well as being his mate.

Lydia Martin, a banshee. Her transformation was triggered. She’s a pretty girl with red hair, and an IQ of something almost as high as Stiles, but not quite there.

Jackson Whittemore, rejected the bite but later accepted, and is now a Beta. He’s cocky, and represents the typical Jock. Lydia is his mate.

Danny Mahealani, a human who is a computer whiz, as well as an amazing hacker. Joined because of Jackson and Lydia.

Erica Reyes, turned by Peter and is a Beta. She had epilepsy and had a complete transformation.

Isaac Haley, a Beta. Came from an abusive background and Peter is now his legal guardian. He put on a tough boy attitude but is actually a puppy.

Vernon Boyd, a Beta. Seems to be the calmest. Not much known about his background. Joined with Erica and Isaac. Erica is his Mate.

Stiles doesn’t know much about them, and he’s not sure if he really wants to. This pack is a mix of strangeness, sprinkled with a dash of mysterious. When Stiles is done making mental files of them, Deaton come back from who-knows-where. Stiles feels as though Peter Hale took them in and gave them a reason, he’s just not sure what the reason is.

Before he knows it, the train has pulled up in the station, and Stiles in getting off, preparing to meet his new pack.  


	4. Count Hieronim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nemeton and Nogitsune make and appearance. Stiles finally meets the pack. Peter is suitably weirded out and Stiles likes their house. Pack find out that the Assembly is filled with dicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd hurry up and update. The Nemeton doesn't have the biggest role, but it will be pretty big. Note that the romance is going to take some time. I wouldn't call it slow-romance, but they don't just instantly fall in love. If you have any suggestions for pack bonding exercises don't be shy to comment them, I'm open to suggestions and constructive criticism. Nogitsune was in Stiles life before, and he was a bit scarred by it. Note that this story does have quiet a bit of angst. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf

Beacon Hills hasn’t changed at all. The train station is still old and rusting, not an inch renovated. The trees tower over the buildings, swaying gently in the breeze, and Stiles feels the age old magic thrum in the air. It’s old and ancient, but there is something malicious in air. It’s strangely familiar. It caresses and entwines around stiles, curling around him curiously. Stiles stiffens, letting the magic view him, after a while it goes away, curiosity sated.

Stiles ignores Deaton’s questioning look and walks forward. The deeper he walks into the forest the more he feels the magic. It clings to his clothes and pleads for his attention, begging for Stiles to look at it; to let it in.

Stiles hears it whisper something, muffled and incoherent. It whispers again, and Stiles’ eyes widen;

_Lets Play A Game, Hieronim_

_Answer Me This_

_Everyone Has It But No One Can Lose It_

_What Is It?_

“Nogitsune…” Stiles whispers hoarsely. He knows that voice anywhere; knows that riddle; knows that playfully vicious tone. It has haunted him for years and he can remember it like yesterday. Even to this day, he can still feel the blood coating his hands, wet and warm and oh-so wonderful.

Stiles whirls around, facing a startled Deaton.

“Where’s the Nemeton?” Stiles demands harshly. Deaton looks shocked, as though Stiles shouldn’t have known. “Where is it? What have you done with it?” Without waiting for a reply Stiles marches off, following the trail of magic.

“Stiles! Wait, what do you want with the Nemeton?” Deaton runs after him, eyes alight with panic. “Stiles, stop!”

Stiles stops, albeit reluctantly, and impatiently waits for Deaton to catch up. The druid is breathing heavily, hands resting on his knees in an effort to regain his breath.

“Take me to the Nemeton,” Deaton opens his mouth to protest but Stiles continues on. “No, I need to see it. Now.”

Seeing that Stiles isn’t going to give up, Deaton nods and leads the way. They walk in tense silence until they come upon the Nemeton, its foreboding aura driving away any animal that might have been curious enough to stumble upon it. Stiles notices the wilting leaves, and the rotten branches; it’s dying.

The smell of death stings Stiles’ nose but he pays it no mind, instead looking over the tree without touching it. There is something almost sad in the way the tree curls in on itself, a defense that seems to sag a bit.

“It’s dying,” Stiles announces. “And you are doing nothing to help it.” Stiles spins around, looking Deaton sternly in the eyes. “Why aren’t you helping it? You’re a druid; this is the very tree you once worshipped, and you’re just going to let it _DIE?!_ ” Stiles is shouting, hands flailing in the air, tone incredulous.

“Stiles, there is nothing I can do,” Deaton begins, hoping to placate the boy. “It refuses to accept my, as well as many others, help.”

Stiles inhales deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “How many mages and druids have you called?”

“Plenty. We have even asked the Assembly for help, but they refuse, believing that the Nemeton should die.”

It’s at times like these when Stiles really wants to punch the Assembly and tell them everything they say is a load of bull shit. Letting the Nemeton die is going to affect the balance of everything, and it’s also going to make the Nogitsune really fucking mad and Stiles is not ready for that; not again.

“Don’t think we aren’t coming back to this.” Stiles warns, jabbing a finger into Deaton’s chest, accentuating his warning. Deaton nods, looking disdainfully at the offending finger.  

Satisfied, Stiles walks in the direction opposite to the Nemeton. Deaton lets him walk for a bit before he shouts;

“You’re going the wrong way!”

 Hearing this, Stiles spins around and sheepishly walks back.

“I knew that!” Stiles pouts stubbornly, refusing to admit he had no idea where the Hale house was.

“Sure you did.”

* * *

 

 

They continue walking until they reach a pathway. Deaton takes the front, leading Stiles down the pathway, making turns and going over to new pathways. When they finally make it to a clearing, Stiles feels like he’s been through a maze, and he’s slightly dizzy from the amount of turning and twisting he’s had to do.

When they reach the house, Stiles is suitably impressed. The house is elegant, but not overbearingly so. Stiles can say that the Hale house is probably one of the prettiest houses he’s ever seen. Stiles can hear the rambunctious talking inside, as well as feel the excitement in the air, but there is also wariness, and Stiles nods; they should never be too trusting of an outsider.

Finally, Deaton leads him up to the mahogany door, and knocks. After three knocks the door is answered, and Stiles is faced with the Alpha, looking exactly like his picture in the file.

“You must be Stiles Stilinski,” The Alpha says, looking at Stiles with a smile. It’s a challenge to see if Stiles will bare his neck in submission, or face on head first.

“And you must be Peter Hale, the Alpha.” Stiles replies, undeterred. This makes Peter grin, and his eyes become lighter, pleased with the outcome of his challenge.

Peter opens the door and allows them in, giving Stiles a view of the other pack members who do nothing to hide their curiosity. He can feel their emotions on the tip of his tongue and it’s a whirlwind; so many emotions it almost too much.

Peter nods at the pack, and they stand in unison, letting the mage get a good look at them. He recognizes them from their files, and can pin point exactly what they’re feeling. Most of them are excitement, but others, like Lydia, Jackson and Derek, are wary and skeptic.

“You probably know who they are,” Peter starts, nodding at the files Stiles is holding in his arms. “And we know a bit about you, but not a lot.” He walks away from Stiles and sits on a couch, the pack immediately curl around him. Stiles takes an arm chair, and sinks into it, letting his bags drop to the floor.  

“We just have some questions, if that’s alright?” Peter asks, looking at Stiles for an okay. When he nods, Peter continues. “First: how readily are you available? Deaton here is a vet, so we couldn’t always get a hold of him.”

“I don’t have another job,” Stiles answers. “So I’ll more than likely be available at all times. If I’m somehow not available, you can call me, or summon, either one’s fine.”

“Summon?” Scott questions, leaning forward in interest.

“Mages who are part of a pack, or serve a pack, can be summoned,” Stiles says. “You can call my name out loud, or you can think of me and call for my help.”

“That’s so cool!” Scott raved, eyes wide with wonder. The rest of the pack are also excited, having never seen magic up close. 

Peter started again before Scott could ask anything else;

“How powerful and experienced are you?” Peter questioned, looking at Stiles curiously. It seemed doubtful that such a thin boy could hold a lot of power.

“If the highest was 10, Stiles would be a 8,” Deaton answered for Stiles, ignoring his glare and the packs surprised looks. “Stiles has been doing magic since the age of 8, and that’s only in training. Even before training, he had enhanced magic.”

For the next statement, Deaton looked Peter straight on the eye and said; “He’s a spark as well.”

Peter felt his eyes widen, looking back and forth between Stiles and Deaton. A spark was rare, even more so in someone so young. Even if Stiles didn’t have magical abilities, the spark would have granted him safety.

“I specialize in both defense and offense, as well as medicine and poison.” Stiles took over. “There is also dark magic, but I tend not to use that.”

“How dark are we talking here?” Derek asked, looking at Stiles warily.

“I’d rather not say,” Stiles spoke before Derek could ask again. “It involves blood magic, but that can be highly forbidden.”

“And what’s to stop you from doing it?” Lydia interrogated.

Stiles sighed, internally rolling his eyes at her bossiness. He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and showed his markings. Tattoos littered his arm, some old and ancient, written in a language none of them could understand.

“These markings are part of the standard mage requirement,” Stiles explains. “If you are a mage, and if you are assigned by the Assembly, these markings bind you. If I were to commit blood magic without asking first, each of these marks would go off, and unending pain would be upon me; imagine it as being burned alive inside out.”

The pack looked surprised, unbelieving that the Assembly would be as cruel as to mark their mages and essentially kill them if they decided to go rogue.

“What if… what if you have to do blood magic? Like if you’re forced into it.” Allison asked hesitantly, fearing the answer.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles answered. “They would still go off. I know it’s strict, but it’s what the Assembly does. Disobeying orders isn’t exactly a good thing in their book. 

Allison nodded, still looking sick.

“Alright, next question,” Peter interrupted, unwilling for the conversation to become dark. “Are you opposed to living here and allowing us to scent mark you?” Stiles arched an eyebrow in question. “If you’re going to be pack we need to scent mark you and get a feel for your scent. Living with us will better the bond.”

“I’m not opposed to this, after all, I’m supposed to learn the meaning of family.” Stiles grinned wryly. “I hope none of you mind ultra-loud snoring.”

The werewolves in the pack groaned, dreading the noise; having super-hearing wasn’t always a blessing. Peter grinned while Stiles laughed, waving his hands in a placating gesture, reassuring the wolves that he was just kidding.

Stiles could get used to it, even if it was only because messing with the wolves was fun.


	5. Father of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wards the Hale house and see's his father after many years. More of John and Stiles confrontation next chapter. i want to dedicate the next chapter to that, so expect it some time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took some time because I was busy, and I have a conference coming up (nothing serious). As well as being busy with home work, I also didn't get a lot of time to write. Most chapters will probably be posted on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.  
> Also this chapter is kind of short, but at least Stiles meets his father.  
> Enjoy! And thank you for the great comments last chapter!  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf

Now that Stiles was in no hurry to meet the pack, he could take in the environment around the Hale complex without complications. The forest was a good cover up, deceiving humans into believing that there was nothing beyond it. The bad thing was that it wasn’t warded, and it seemed that a lot of evil and impure spirits had taken a liking to it.

“You guys shift here a lot?” Stiles asked a silent Peter.

“We take nightly runs, why do you ask?” Peter answered.

“I sense a lot of spirits,” Stiles explained. “The supernatural tends to be attracted to other supernatural things; your shifting is beckoning spirits.”

Peter sighs, yet another problem that their house has had. Minutes before, Stiles has said that the forest was housing plenty of dangerous stuff, and now he was telling them that their house was some sort of evil attracter.

“I’m going to have to ward your house,” Stiles continued. “Just some simple spells that will alert me of intruders and attacks.”

“Unless,” Stiles eyed Peter in his peripheral vision. “You don’t want me to change anything. It is your house after all, and I can see it holds some fond memories for you.”

To be honest, Peter hadn’t even thought of that. Tainting the house had never been a problem; it had been renovated so many times that Peter couldn’t even remember the original design. And if it was for the safety of his pack, he would let Stiles ward the fuck out of it.

“It won’t be a problem,” Peter reassured. “This house had been renovated so many times I can hardly remember what it looked like when I was a kid.”

Stiles sighed, a smile gracing his face, and Peter was struck by how young he looked.

“I can sympathize with that,” Stiles told him. “When I was a kid, my mentor would switch the furniture around every month. After a while, she started transforming the whole house, going from cottages to castles to who-knows-what.” Stiles threw his head back and laughed, loud and boisterous, as though he was revisiting a happy memory.

“Wait- you’re mentor changed your house every month?! Like, just for fun?!” Erica asked incredulously. Peter didn’t even let them change their rooms if he knew they were going to make a lot of noise. And Derek absolutely hated anything out of order. Now Stiles, a new pack member, had lived with some crazy-ass woman who renovated the house every month and turned it into something as grand as a castle; how unfair!

“Yep.” Stiles replied, popping the ‘P’.

“House renovating aside,” Peter interjected. “How are you going to ward the whole house?”

“I need to be near the core of your house. I also need some salt.” Stiles said vaguely.

Somewhere in the back, Scott mouthed ‘Salt?’ to an equally befuddled Allison, who just shrugged. Peter sighed, it was almost like Stiles was channeling his inner Deaton; vague and very confusing. Also, why would he need salt for this?

“Don’t question it!” Stiles called back to them, eyes still straight ahead. He continued walking forward, whistling a happy tune. God, messing with these guys was so damn fun.

* * *

 

Once the salt had been fetched, and the core founded, Stiles got to work. Stiles examined the ground before he found a clear patch. Resting a hand down, Stiles let the magic thrum threw him, it vibrated against his skin and felt like course fur. Satisfied, he stood up and began marking the ground, carving into it with a serrated blade.

“I still don’t understand what the salt is for,” Isaac said, and honestly, none of them were quite so sure.

“He’ll probably explain later,” Peter dismissed. “You did bring the salt though, right?”

Isaac nodded, shaking the bag of salt in his hands. They continued watching as Stiles marked the earth. Once he was finished, Stiles stood back, eyeing the markings critically before nodding in satisfaction.

“Salt.” Stiles ordered, holding a hand out. Isaac dropped the salt bag into his hands before hastily retreating.

Stiles retraced the markings with the salt, being extra careful not to step on it. Once he was finished, Stiles picked the knife back up and stood in the middle of the markings, making sure to avoid touching them.

Holding his palm out, he spoke softly in language the pack could not understand before he slashed his palm, letting his blood drip onto the ground. Slowly, before the blood could completely reach the ground it sparked, creating a small fire. The fire grew, licking up Stiles’ arm and sweeping across his face, yet it seemed to do him no harm.

The pack made to move forward but Stiles shook his head, still chanting. Finally, the flames seeped into the earth, sinking into it until only a small bit was left. The markings shone bright red before fading completely. When the flames were all gone, Stiles sighed in relief; no errors had happened and he’s been relatively safe.

“There,” Stiles said triumphantly. “The whole place has been warded and protected. Nothing is getting through this without setting off the alarm.”

“What. The fuck. Was that?” Jackson asked, shocked.

“Warding a place as big as this needs more effort,” Stiles explained. “The marking were infused with some of my magic, and my blood just strengthened that bond.”

“What about the salt?” Derek questioned, looking curious. Behind him the pack nodded, also wanting to know the answer.

“Nothing,” Stiles stated simply, ignoring the packs befuddled looks. “It just makes me look cool and mysterious.”

“Crazy,” Peter murmured. “Absolutely crazy.” He rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

“Now,” Stiles announced. “We need to test them out.” He looked keenly at the pack. “Anyone want to volunteer?”

No one raised their hands. None of them were keen on being hurt, nor were they keen on being test subjects.

“Why not?” Peter questioned, shrugging. “I’ll try it.”

“Great!” Stiles exclaimed. “You can just fire a gun at it. I don’t expect you to shift.”

Peter nodded, pulling out a hand gun he kept in his pocket. He walked outside the barrier and took his position before shooting. The bullet rebounded, heading back to Peter. He ducked, missing it by a mere inch.

“Whoa…” Scott awed, looking at the barrier with eyes as wide as saucers.

“Nice,” Allison complimented, eyeing the barrier critically. Being a hunter had made her more appreciative of protection and defense.

“This won’t count for you, unless I know you’re possessed, then I’ll make it so that you can’t enter.” Stiles explained, a prideful grin on his face. Magic made him feel better, as though a certain weight had been lifted and he was free again.

Now that the warding was done, Erica and Lydia eyed Stiles clothes disdainfully.

“You need a makeover.” They announced in unison, their tone brooking no argument. Stiles sighed, hanging his head in defeat while the rest of the pack laughed.  

* * *

 

 “I don’t understand what’s wrong with my style!” Stiles whined, dragging his feet as they swept through the clothing store.

“It’s not about your style,” Lydia explained, examining a shirt before throwing it to the side. “It’s about how you only have one bag filled with clothes.”

Stiles sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes at her. It didn’t matter that most of his clothes were plain and old, he liked them. In fact, he loved them. They reminded him of a simpler time, where things like money and power meant absolutely nothing.

The rest of the pack had gone to get food, unwilling to get caught up in Erica’s and Lydia’s mission. Stiles remembered that their parting words had been, “What kind of grave do you want; fancy or plain?”

Stiles had never feared for his life, but there was a first time for everything.

After an hour of vicious shopping, Lydia and Erica determined that he had enough clothes. They met up with the rest of the pack, who were arguing about lacrosse. They decided that a park would be a better option, rather than sitting at the restaurant, which made the wolves sick.

Stiles immediately felt the calmness in the park, felt it lull him into a state of happiness, all the old memories coming back to him. It had been years since he had been to this park, the last time was when he had been six, and he’s mother had still been alive.

Stiles spotted the swing he used to play with, and he smiled. Without realizing it, he wandered off towards the swing, tracing down the chains and recalling all the happy memories he had with it. He pulled the swing back and let it go. It squealed, sounding exactly the same as it had when Stiles was a kid.

“Still haven’t fixed you, have they?” Stiles mumbled, idly tracing the chains once more before going back to the pack, who had all stopped to watch him.

 He ignored their questioning looks and started to set the blanket. Eventually, the pack dropped the questioning looks and began displaying the food. It was nice, Stiles mused, that the pack asked silently instead of questioning him insistently like Erynn would.

Just as he was beginning to talk to Peter, telling him about his trip and asking Peter questions about the pack, Stiles felt a hauntingly familiar aura.

“Dad?” Stiles whispered hoarsely, head whipping around to stare at the man who had haunted his dreams for years. The man returned his stare, equally as haunted. John mouthed a name, and Stiles was struck by how haggard he looked, as though he was staring at a ghost; he almost was.

“Stiles?” John croaked, eyes never leaving the form of his run-away son. 

* * *

 

The pack watched the two men cautiously, stepping back as to not get stuck in the crossfire. The two Stilinski men stared at each other, both remembering that fateful day where John had broken everything between them, severed a bond bone-deep.  

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, staring at his son- God, he thought that would never happen again- with tear filled eyes. There was not a bone in his body that didn’t feel like the scum of the earth; he had been the worst father. What kind of father would say that to his son?

“I know,” Stiles replied truthfully. He knew that his father would hate himself for a long time after that day. He never once doubted that his father had loved him. Now, seeing him after so many years, Stiles was struck by how much of an impact it had had on his father.

John made to move forward but Stiles raised a hand, stopping him from getting closer. John’s face contorted into a hurt look, but there was also resignation there, as though he knew that it wouldn’t be as easy as ‘Sorry’.

“This is going to take time,” Stiles started. “You know this. I know you’re sorry; I know you feel horrible; I know you want us to stop hurting, but it isn’t that simple. You hurt me, and I know it will take a long time for these wounds to heal.”

When Stiles said ‘Wounds’ he placed his outstretched hand on his father’s chest, right where his heart was. John clenched his eyes shut and raised a hand, placing it over Stiles’.

Finally, John couldn’t take the distance anymore, and yanked his son forward into his arms. Stiles gasped, landing against the oh-so familiar chest, where he hadn’t been held since he was eight. Before he could stop himself, Stiles felt the tears slip down his cheeks and into his father’s shirt. He burrowed in further, surrounded by the love and hurt of his father.

John buried his face into Stiles’ hair and breathed in, taking in his son’s smell; he smelt just like he had so many years ago. John pressed a kiss to the crown of his head and held on tighter, unwilling to let Stiles go after being parted for so long. John’s shoulders shook, violent sobs wracking his thin frame.

“I’m sorry,” John sobbed, gripping Stiles tighter. “I’m _so sorry,_ I’m _so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry_.”

He repeated the words all over again, still mumbling into a pliant Stiles’ hair. The pack had turned away, giving the two men privacy, but Peter couldn’t help but watch the scene sadly; it reminded him of the time he had run away from home and his father come tearing after him. But this scene was so much sadder. Peter didn’t know the backstory, but what he did know was that these two men were broken, torn apart from the inside, and they were trying to mend their bond back together.

After a while they separated, both drying wet eyes. Stiles reached out again, gripping John’s arm.  

“Want to have a picnic?” Stiles offered, smiling weakly. This problem would not fix itself in one go. No, it would take time and effort and love, but John and Stiles were willing to try.

“Sure.” And that was that. It was an agreement. A promise that both of them were hell-bent on keeping.


	6. Four-No, Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of feels. Nemeton. Nogitsune. Papa Stilinski and Stilinski Jr. Light hearted fluff, comedy. You know, the basic stuff. A Shit load of Angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter, Yay! Thank you for the wonderful reviews, I loved all of them. Next Chapter will be up tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf

The pack shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the two quiet men in front of them. Stiles and John had chosen to take some lunch and sit a few feet away. It was meant to be for privacy, but the pack could still here everything with their heightened-hearing. So far, the two Stilinski men had yet to say anything, instead choosing to sit in silence and dwell in their own thoughts.

Finally, John cleared his throat awkwardly, timidly glancing at Stiles before speaking, “So, where have you been these past few years?” It was a weak attempt at conversation but Stiles was willing to go for it.

“I traveled around a little before settling down in Castellum oblitus,” Stiles paused, taking a bite from his sandwich.

“Interesting.” John said.

They lapsed back into silence before John, once again, broke it.

“You were eight,” He said suddenly, causing Stiles to still and put down his sandwich. “And I couldn’t find you anywhere in the house. Checked the closets, the cupboards, every room in the house; and you weren’t anywhere.” John’s breath hitched and his eyes screwed shut. “Then I remembered what I had said to you the night before, and I felt like the scum of the universe, Stiles.”

“Dad…” Stiles began but John cut him off,

“No, no, Stiles let me speak. This is my fault, and I can’t expect you to try and fix something you didn’t cause.” John took in a deep breath. “Stiles I know you’re magical,” Stiles felt like someone had sucker punched him in the stomach; his father knew. “I know you didn’t have control over it as a kid and you were doing what felt right, but all I could think of was that stupid hate call and your mother’s death.” The pack took in a breath, waiting. “I wanted to kill myself the day I realized that I was the one who made you runaway.” Stiles opened his mouth to object, but John ploughed on.

“There isn’t a second that goes by that I can’t remember those _stupid, stupid,_ words I said.” John screwed his hands into fists and gritted his teeth. “I was a fucking asshole, Stiles.” Both Stiles and the pack stilled, knowing that it was going to become even more serious because John never swore. “What kind of father tells their kid that he should have never been born? What kind of father would do that to the last thing he has left?”

The pack growled, hating that the sheriff had caused Stiles, his own son, so much pain.

“You mean the world to me,” John took Stiles’ hands and held them, reminding him of a time where he would help Stiles think just by holding his hands. “You can forgive me Stiles but I don’t think I will be able to forgive myself. I love you. So, so much. And if I could, I would go back in time, bitch slap past me and set everything right.”

Stiles laughed and laughed before it stopped sounding like laughing and started sounding like sobbing. He curled up against his father’s side and clutched his shirt, clinging to him for stability. John wrapped am arm around the younger man and held him close, letting his own tear free.

“It hurt,” Stiles choked. “I know you were drunk but it hurt so much. I thought you didn’t love me anymore.” Stiles cried harder, tears renewing as he remembered all the times his insecurities had gotten in the way. There had been a time where he had genuinely thought his father hadn’t loved him and that he hadn’t been drunk when he had said all those hurtful things.

“Never,” John denied vehemently, clutching Stiles closer. “I promised myself I wouldn’t drink again. Not after that day.”

The pack watched as the two men curled around each other, sobbing and crying, offering support. The pack had known Stiles for a grand total of a day but he already felt like family, and seeing him in so much pain made the pack angst-y. They wanted to go and comfort Stiles, wanted to cuddle him and tell him that everything would be okay, but that would be lying and Peter wasn’t sure Stiles would appreciate it.  

The two men finally parted, both with red-rimmed eyes and sniffling noses. They settled back in companionable silence. When they had finished eating, Stiles deemed it a good enough time to talk.

“When I was eight and on the run, I had people constantly ask me where my parents were,” Stiles snorted, smirking mischievously at John. “To get them off my back I would tell them my dad was a male stripper in town hoping to seduce women and that they should be aware.” John choked, shocked at the outrageous lie.

“And they believed you?” John questioned.

“Oh yeah,” Stiles replied nonchalantly. “A lot of people, women especially, kept asking me for your number.” Stiles paused, filling John with foreboding.

“I gave them your real number.” And the bomb had been dropped. John blanched, before understanding dawned on him.

“That’s why I kept getting weird calls from women telling me they wanted me to come to their house!” John exclaimed. “Do you know how many times I had to answer an awkward phone call, thinking it was a friend, only to be answered by a women telling me she was still waiting for a lap dance!” Somewhere in the background John could hear the pack howling with laughter, but he was too busy chewing out his son to care.

“At least I didn’t tell them your address.” Stiles placated, trying to reassure his father but failing spectacularly.  

“You better have not!” John shouted. He continued chewing out Stiles while the pack got their breath back. John sighed tiredly, looking fondly at his thoroughly chastised son.

It was just like Stiles to break the depressing atmosphere, and John had never loved him as much as he did now.  

* * *

After that heavy conversation the picnic had been lighter. It involved with each of them telling funny stories and talking about their adventures. Soon, the day had ended and John had to go, but not before hesitantly asking his son visit sometime. Stiles response had been instant, “Of course I’ll visit, and I left behind a lot of good stuff old man!” Which resulted in John smacking Stiles on the back of his head and smiling.

When they reached back to the Hale house, Stiles had fallen asleep in the back seat. The pack needed a lot of space, so Stiles, Derek, Scott and Peter had taken one car. Danny, Lydia, Allison and Jackson had taken Jackson’s car, and Erica, Boyd and Isaac were in Boyd’s car.

The ride was silent except for the soft music playing and Stiles’ breathing. He looked peaceful, but on guard. Every now and then Peter would catch Stiles’ eyes moving frantically, as though he were having a distressing dream, but he showed no outward signs of distress.

Stiles shifted restlessly before settling his head on Scott’s shoulder, mumbling incoherently into it. Scott tensed, looking down at Stiles before relaxing, letting his own head fall on top of Stiles’. Derek and Peter chatted idly in the front, paying little attention to the two sleeping boys on the back.

It was calming, Peter mused, that Stiles fit in so well with the pack. All of them had been wary of having an emissary but Stiles had proved that he wasn’t stiff and vague like Deaton. He showed them his past life through a very emotional reunion with his father that Peter felt like they weren’t supposed to have seen.

Finally parking in the garage, Peter told Derek to go ahead. He opened the back door and gently shook Stiles’ shoulder, rousing the boy awake. Stiles nodded groggily at Peter before making his way inside. Doing the same to Scott, Peter then followed him into the house. Scott managed a ‘Good night’ before he fully disappeared upstairs. Stiles had fallen on the couch, not asleep but close enough that Peter had to rush over and shake him again.

“Stiles,” Peter waited for his eyes to open. “You need to sleep in your bed, c’mon.”

He took a hold of Stiles and gently led him up the stairs, showing him his new room. Stiles took one look at the bed before flopping down on it, groaning at the heavenly feeling of soft pillows. Peter quietly shut the door and walked downstairs. The others had made it home already and were loitering around in the kitchen, putting away groceries and dumping Stiles’ new clothes on the counter.  

“He’s asleep.” Peter informed them, receiving nods in return. Everybody was more or less tired, having spent a majority of the day outside. They all went to sleep a little lighter. That night, Stiles had no nightmares about his dad’s hurtful words.

The moment Peter woke up, he knew having Stiles as an emissary and pack mate was a great gift bestowed upon them. All of this was because Stiles knew how to cook. He could smell the tantalizing smell of pancakes, waffles and sausages, and it made his stomach rumble in anticipation.

Getting out of bed, Peter brushed his teeth and headed down stairs, not bothered by the fact that he was still in his shirt and shorts with an unruly bed-head.

Stiles bustled around the kitchen, making enough food to feed a mini-army, or in this case; a Pack. Peter joined Stiles seamlessly, making coffee and setting the table. Stiles barely batted at an eyelash at his sudden presence. Soon, the pack began trudging in, each lured in by the smell of fresh food. They sat in their respective seats, chatting idly and waiting for the food. Once the food had been laid out the pack groaned before saying, “Thank you Stiles.” In unison.

Stiles raised an eyebrow and said, “Never talk in unison. Ever again. That was creepy as hell.” He paused before continuing, “And you’re welcome.”

“So, what are you all doing today? Allison and I are going on a date!” Scott asked cheerfully, ignoring the packs collective groan. Allison and Scott were known for being the mushiest couple to ever walk the earth and hearing about what they were going to do was absolutely boring.

“I’m going to the local pharmacy, my mom’s sick.” Lydia shared, casting a disgruntled look at her food. “I also have a double shift today.” The pack nodded sympathetically, understanding her pain.

“Boyd and I were thinking about going to the water park.” Isaac piped up. “You coming with Jackson?” Isaac asked, looking at said boy. Jackson nodded, knowing he had nothing better to do.

“Danny’s gonna show me how to hack into the system of a bank.” Erica grinned wickedly, eyeing a nervous Danny with a look in her eyes.

“Biker gang.” Derek stated dully, completely bypassing the packs curious looks. Nobody was quite sure what Derek did in his free time, but being part of a biker gang was surprisingly mild. Or as mild as Derek could be.

Realizing Stiles had yet to answer, they all turned to him. Stiles continued eating for a moment before speaking.

“I need to check something in the forest,” Stiles looked towards Peter for the next bit of his sentence. “I’m gonna need you to come with me.” Noting the serious look, Peter nodded tensely, wary of what Stiles wanted to talk about.  

* * *

 

 The magic was back and thrumming through Stiles with renewed vigor. The Nogitsune had seemed to skirt around him, unwilling to go closer because of Peter. Leading the way to the Nemeton, Stiles wondered of Peter knew just how much trouble they were in because of it. So far, Peter had yet to show that he knew where they were going, and it was driving Stiles crazy. He needed to know if Peter knew why the Nemeton was dying. Everything in his very being called for him to fix it; for him to stop the suffering so that it would not take its pain out on the people of Beacon Hills.

“Why are you taking me to the Nemeton?” Stiles startled, tripping over a tree root and flailing so he didn’t face-plant. Peter swiftly caught the back of his shirt, hauling him straight.

“Why are you taking me to the Nemeton?” Peter repeated, looking at Stiles piercingly.

“It’s dying,” He started. “And I wanted to see if you had any idea why.” There, that seemed like a good enough information without giving too much away.

“Stiles. We’ve called every witch, warlock, and druid. They don’t know what to do. The Nemeton refuses to accept their help.” Peter explained. “I’m sure Deaton would have told you about this.”

“He did,” Stiles confirmed. “But he was very vague about it. Look, all I know is that the Nemeton is dying and it keeps calling to me.” Stiles sighed roughly, running a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“Why is it calling you?” Peter questioned curiously.

Stiles swallowed nervously, remembering the Nogitsune and how much havoc it had wrecked upon him. It would be like opening a sensitive wound if Stiles told him the story, but if he didn’t, they might never know why the Nemeton is dying.

“When I was younger, about twelve maybe, the Nogitsune took an interest in me.” Stiles began hoarsely. “It would come to me in dreams. It kept giving me riddles and puzzles; it even had me play ‘Go’ with it.”

_How many finger do you have, Hieronim?_

_Go on!_

_Count them_

_One_

_Two_

_Three_

_Four_

_Only four_

Stiles gasped, hands clawing at each other as he counted his fingers.

_One. Breath. Two. Breathe. Three. Breathe. Four. Breathe. Fiv-!_

_Where was five?!_

Stiles looked frantically down at his fingers, counting rapidly. The thump of his heart sounded far too loud. It pounded in his ears and made it harder to breathe. Phantom claws gripped at his clothes, running cold- _so cold_ \- finger down his cheek. Finally finding the fifth finger, Stiles took in a ragged breath.

_Five. Breath Stiles, breathe._

“Stiles!” there was shouting. “Stiles!”

Realizing he had closed his eyes, Stiles opened them, finding the blurry face of a concerned Peter almost immediately. He blindly reached out for the older man, grasping at his shirt, needing reassurance that he was here and not there. Peter enclosed his Stiles’ hands with his own, murmuring encouragement into his ears. He sent marked him, nosing Stiles’ neck while letting his do the same. Stiles buried his face into the crook of Peter’s neck and took in deep breathes, trying to calm down.

“Want to tell me what just happened?” Peter asked gently.

“No. No, not yet.” Stiles replied, burrowing further into Peter’s neck.

Peter didn’t mind; offering reassurance was an everyday thing for an Alpha. Stiles was pack, and Pack always came first.


	7. Dear Mother of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graveyards, Goblins and Nogitsune troubles. Peter learns some more about Stiles and the first case is set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know; i said I'd update a new chapter last week, but this chapter got deleted and I had to re-write the beginning of it. Remember this is slow-build, they won't be jumping each other anytime soon. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf.

Peter sighed, placing a chaste kiss on Stiles’ temple, before nuzzling his hair. His kiss was purely platonic, meaning to bring reassurance to the younger man. Stiles nudged him back, burrowing further in to his neck and pressing his own kiss to Peter’s skin. Finally, Stiles stepped back, within arm distance, but far enough that he could talk freely. Peter watched him worriedly, hands falling to his shoulder and squeezing them in comfort before letting go.

“Stiles,” Peter spoke up, making the younger man’s eyes flit over to his. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

Stiles swallowed, wetting his lip nervously before opening his mouth to speak.

“When I younger, the Nogitsune decided that it was in love with my body and wanted to keep me,” Peter’s face darkened, eyes becoming furious. Realizing what Peter thought had happened, Stiles hurried to clarify. “No! Nothing like that, it was- there was no rape! God forbid. The Nogitsune just wanted my body as a vessel, and since my magic still wasn’t in control, he could easily take over my mind.”

 Knowing what was coming next, Stiles steeped closer, taking comfort on Peter. Peter accepted readily, snagging an arm around the younger man’s shoulders and bringing him close.

“The first time I… I killed under the Nogitsune’s influence, it told me that it was going to help me,” Stiles felt himself shake, bile rising in the back of his throat as he remembered that day. Swallowing, he continued. “It cut off one of my fingers and told me to focus on that instead.”

“God, it was horrible. It felt like my fingers were being stripped of their skin and cut off with a blunt saw. Even while it was doing this to me, the Nogitsune would ask riddles and expect me to answer, as though nothing was wrong.”

Peter blanched, bringing Stiles closer to him. The urge to protect was strong, and so was the urge to tell Stiles it would be alright; but it wouldn’t be alright. Stiles would forever bear the scars of his torture with the Nogitsune, and Peter would forever wonder how he was still sane. Now, knowing Stiles’ story, Peter could understand why he would always look down at his fingers, pale and shaking, as though he was reliving everything in the span of a few minutes.

 “It keeps coming back, Peter,” Stiles whimpered. “And I don’t know what to do. I can’t be cleansed; it takes too long, and nothing else I’ve tried has worked.” Stiles clenched his eyes shut and pressed his face against Peter’s shoulder, trying to keep from crying. He couldn’t handle this much sadness and pain in the span of two days; first his father and then this. For once, Stiles just wanted to do nothing. Not even the ADHD, which had been with him for his whole life, could take his attention off of everything.

Right now, it seemed like Peter was the only thing anchoring him. The older man had held him close and given support, but he also hadn’t told Stiles that it would be alright when it obviously wouldn’t. Stiles appreciated the quiet support, and the lack of lies, and Peter knew this because Stiles didn’t seem like someone who would take false reassurance lying down.

Stiles jerked slightly when Peter spoke,

“Stiles,” He said. “You don’t have to do anything for now. Look, Deaton called and said he had something for us to look into; it’ll take your mind off of this.” Peter soothed a hand through Stiles’ hair before letting go and stepping back.

“I’m in. Anything to get my mind off that fucking fox.” Stiles frowned, eyebrows pinching on distress.

Peter wished that he could help, but as far as he could see, Stiles didn’t look ready for any more heart-to-heart chats.

* * *

 

Deaton’s shop hadn’t change a bit. Each book was lined up perfectly, not a thing out of place. It was almost as though he had stopped using the shop and had left it perfectly still. Even the little ornaments were in exactly the same place Stiles remembered and he had been 7 years old.

Deaton flipped through another file, the firm set of his lips showed that he wasn’t finding anything pleasing. At best, most of these files were caused by humans or Mother Nature, that is, until one particular file caught his eye. It was a file concerning a burned village of the Fae Folk, one mythical species that didn’t cause trouble everywhere they went.

Skimming over the information, he found something he knew Stiles would like.

“Peter, Stiles,” Deaton called, waving the men over. “This case involves a burned village of the Fae Folk. Look at this.” He said, pointing to the sentence he had found particularly interesting.

Stiles read it over, realization dawning on him. He shook his head at the rest of the information, questioning why some found this case so difficult; the answer was clear and hidden in plain sight. Peter frowned, not understanding one of the words.

“Cab-cabulus ign-is?” Peter struggled to pronounce. “What does that mean?”

“Goblin Fire,” Stiles murmured in translation, eyes fixated on the two words. “Cabalus meaning ‘Goblin’ in medieval Latin and ‘Ignis’ meaning ‘Fire’ in Latin.”

“It’s a pretty big hint to what caused the fire. “ Deaton commented.

“No shit Sherlock,” Stiles snorted, grinning in amusement. “The people literally have their answer right there. So, what do we do now? Go and kill some Goblins?”

Deaton shook his head, sighing in frustration, “The Assembly doesn’t want them dead; they want the Goblins bought in for interrogation.”

Stiles gaped, eyes growing wide in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me they actually think the Goblins will confess anything; those little shits would rather die than confess.” Stiles rolled his eyes at the Assembly’s stupidity, you’d think after hundreds of years they’d know that wouldn’t work.  Deaton nodded in agreement before explaining to a confused Peter.

“The Assembly believes that one day the Goblins will surrender and confess to all their sins. Everybody else knows that won’t happen and would rather kill the Goblins.”

During his explanation, Peters face went from confused to wondrous.  

“I thought the Assembly knew what they were doing. Why isn’t anyone telling them that it won’t work?” Peter turned his eyes to Stiles before going back to Deaton, face pinched in confusion.

“Because the Assembly won’t listen to anything we have to say,” Stiles scoffed, Arms crossing in disdain; he was still angry at those fools. “It’s just the way they are.”

“They don’t know why the Goblin’s set the fire,” Deaton said. “As far as everyone knows, the Goblin’s and Fae’s haven’t fought recently.”

“What about the Goblin wars? Or the Fae hunting they do for no apparent reason?” Stiles offered, flicking through the file. “In fact, hasn’t it been nearly 12 years since the last Fae hunt the Goblins committed?”

“Maybe it’s just a matter of revenge?” Peter threw in, not really knowing about the Goblins and Fae but willing to suggest. “Has something happened between the Goblins and Fae before? Like a battle or slaughter?”

“The Goblins once salted a Fae village.” Stiles said.

“Salted?” Peter asked, eyebrows raised and looking at Stiles for an answer.

“Back in the day, Salting was the act of embedding salt into the soil,” Stiles explained. “What this did was kill the soil, ensuring that no one would be able to live their again. The Fae found this extremely offensive- and it was- so they lured all the Goblins into a mine and burned them, making the mine collapse down on them. They then took the village and honored it to their Queen.”

Peter frowned, shocked at the amount of animosity the two races had towards each other. Wars weren’t uncommon to any of them. There had been times were Peter had feared that a pack war would become too much, but now, hearing this story, he could understand just how bad it could get.

“So,” Peter drawled. “Seems like they have a lot to get revenge for.”

“Not to mention the next 200 years of hate and battle.” Stiles added idly, setting the file down and looking towards Deaton. “So, what do you think, doc? We gonna hop on this case and track some Goblins?”

Deaton sighed tiredly, rubbing his fingers against his temples to sooth the oncoming headache. “Yes, Stiles. You are going to be tracking some Goblins.”

“And don’t call me Doc.”

“Righty-o Doc!”

* * *

 

 The ride back to the Hale complex was quiet, with the occasionally talking and music. Stiles lent his forehead against the window, looking at the blurred scenery pass by before his eyes caught sight of something achingly familiar. Urging Peter to stop, he jumped out of the car with a quietly mumbled, “You go on ahead.”

Peter hesitated briefly before driving, watching as Stiles stood motionless in front of the gate. He looked almost small compared to the looming cemetery gate.

He knew what Stiles was going to. He was going to pay his mother a visit. Maybe it was just Peter, but the way Stiles refused to open the gate said a lot, rather, he nudge it open with his foot. Peter continued watching as Stiles became a small, blurred dot in the distance.

The foreboding gates of the cemetery reminded Stile of a memory. A memory of a young, eight year old Stiles standing in front of this gate, looking so small and sad, flashed before him. His father had taken him back to the grave when the funeral was all over. John had started talking to the headstone, pretending that it was her. Slowly, Stiles had joined in. First quietly, before becoming animated, waving his arms and crying about how much he missed her and that he was very sad. He hadn’t expected his mother to come back, he had been smart enough to know that his mother had died, and when you die you never come back.

Walking down the pathway, Stiles remembered how he used to come back every day after school and talk to her, acting like she was really there, listening to him. The day he’d run away, he’d come to his mother’s grave and cried, spilling his hurt and anguish, swearing that he’d come back to Beacon Hills, if only to see her one last time. He never had.

Now, standing in front of her grave, Stiles could see that his dad visited her frequently. The flowers were placed carefully on top, varying from roses to sunflowers, his dad hadn’t stopped coming, seeing as these roses were four days old.

Sitting down gingerly, he carefully traced her name, pausing at the ‘A’ when he realized he didn’t have any flower with him. Glancing around, he concluded that there was no one nearby. Stiles let the magic spark, a small fire lighting up in his hand, before ebbing away and revealing flower. They ranged from red to silver, all stunningly different, and with a yellow bow wrapped around them. Yellow was her favorite color. Laying them down gently, he sat in silence before speaking.

“Hi, mom,” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry that I haven’t visited in a while, something came up. I promised you that I would come back… and… and I was planning on it.” Stiles cringed, the promise sounded very weak, and he could almost picture his mom’s unimpressed face; the one she used to get when he dad drank beer.

“I know, I know; it’s a lousy excuse,” Stiles admitted, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I would have tried harder but something came up. But hey, my tardiness aside, did you know Peter Hale is an expert cuddler? Like seriously, the man is fucking comfy.”

“Mom, everything’s been great, I have more friends…”

“Let me tell you, Erynn was a slave driver! I had to wake up at 2 in the morning!”

“Hey mom, you know I still love curly fries right? I never stopped…”

As time went on, Stiles became more animated, hands waving and smiling widely, imagining his mother sitting in front of him, nodding her head fondly as he went on. Much of his talk involved Peter and his father, though he was careful not to mention what his father had said to him all those years ago; no need for her to start haunting his dad.

At about 7 Stiles stood up, stretching his aching limbs before sighing contently. The sun had almost fully set, and Stiles cast one final look at the grave, before whispering goodbye and walking away.

Swinging his arms happily, Stiles wondered why he hadn’t talked to his mother years ago. Just talking to her headstone had made him feel considerably lighter and guilt free. Sure, it didn’t take his lifelong depression and scarring away, but it did make him feel much happier about himself and how badly everything had been up until now. He was in such a happy mood that he didn’t let getting lost in the Hale maze-of-a-back-yard affect him.

When they heard the door shut, Peter’s head snapped up, relief washing through him like a giant wave. In his peripheral vision, he could see the rest of the pack relax, knowing that Stiles was safe. Back in the car, when Stiles had jumped out, Peter had wondered if it was a good idea for his health. Stiles obviously had been through a lot, and seeing his mother’s grave would surely have taken a toll on him. He expected Stiles to come back home frowning, or at least a little sad, but now, seeing the young man healthy and happy in front of him, Peter wondered how he could have though something as like this would break him.

Stiles happily said hello, waving his hand animatedly at each pack member. He positively glowed, smiling so wide that it reached his ears. Even the rest of the pack, who had looked ready to convey their worry onto Stiles the moment he came in, quieted, unwilling to dampen his bright mood.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Stiles asked cheerfully, still grinning widely.

“It’s in the microwave; we got you curly fries,” Lydia answered. “You dad said something about them being your favorite.”

Despite how impossible it may seem, Stiles’ smile grew wider. His eyes lit up in joy and excitement, but there was all some nostalgia, as though he was remembering a time long passed. Thanking them, Stiles skipped to the kitchen, arms swinging by his side, humming the jolly tune of 'You're a mean one, Mr.Grinch'; he was the definition of a little kid.

When Stiles was out of sight, Scott sent Peter a questioning look but Peter shook his head. He was sure that if Stiles wanted to tell the pack where he had been, he would tell them, there was no need to make him feel pressured.

 Stiles skipped back into the room, curly fries in one hand, and the bag in his other hand. He continued to stuff them into his mouth, chewing messily and getting crumbs all over the place. The girls sent him a look of disgust, disapproving of his eating habits. While he continued to eat, the pack watched on in stunned silence as he devoured the curly fires in a few bites. Sated, Stiles said his good nights and ventured upstairs. Once his head disappeared upstairs, they all turned to look at Peter.

“Look, he will tell you when he’s ready.” Peter said, addressing the unspoken question. “I know you’re all curious, but we need to give him time. Anyways, we’re going hunting for goblins tomorrow.”

Now finished with business, Peter started up the stairs, going half way before hearing Scott’s shocked voice,

“Wait- did he say Goblins?!”   


	8. Goblins Have Phones?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goblins. Jones. A bit of Peter/Stiles. The destruction of Phones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It had been a while, I know. I was actually supposed to post this like last week, so sorry for being a little late. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf.

This isn’t exactly how Scott pictured spending his Sunday. Sure, usually around this time he’d be mooning about Allison, trying to catch up on homework and basically getting in trouble with the rest of the pack. Today however, Ms. Universe had decided that they needed a little more danger in their lives, and had promptly stuck them behind a bush watching Goblins. Fucking Goblins! As if werewolves and kanimas hadn’t been enough, apparently there was a whole other spectrum of weird out there.

Crouching next to him, Isaac had been strangely quiet. The other boy had been staring into open space, head tilted to the side in a dazed expression. Scott would be worried if this wasn’t such a normal occurrence. In the past few days, Isaac had developed an almost unhealthy obsession with Stiles’ food, and today’s breakfast must have really been the icing on top of the cake.

Stiles, who had been in an exceptionally good mood, had gone all out. The whole table had been filled to the brim with any breakfast food imaginable, and Scott’s pretty sure he saw Isaac moan- not something he wanted to see or hear.

Hearing a rustle, Scott snapped back into attention, sharp eyes skimming over the clearing in front of him. Isaac also shifted, placing his hands on either side of his body and pushing forward, looking like a runner preparing to take off. The first sign of danger would be their signal to attack.

From behind a tree, a gnarled creature came out. It wore tattered old robes and had two white eyes and vomit green skin. At best, it would come up to Scott’s knee, but what had him worried was the jagged knife and sharp teeth protruding from its mouth. Suddenly, his senses were flooded with the smell of burning flesh, causing his eyes to sting and bile to rise at the back of his throat. Isaac gaged next to him, clutching a hand to his mouth with his claws revealed. The creature didn’t seem to hear them, instead, it smile twistedly, bony hands going to its pocket and pulling something out. It was a small phone, surprisingly really- Scott didn’t think all creatures knew modern technology. The little creature snapped it open, little fingers typing a number. When the phone refused to call, the creature snarled, crushing the small phone before taking a bite out of the top. Scott watched as it munched angrily on little electric pieces, horrified at how quick the creature was to anger. Chewing, it took out another phone –honestly, how many phones did the little devil need?! It pushed in the same number, only this time, it worked.

Grumbling angrily to the person on the other end, the Goblin jabbed a finger into the end call button. It stomped around the tree before disappearing from sight. Scott waited to hear it get far away before turning to Isaac and nodding solemnly, receiving a nod in return. Pulling out his own phone, Isaac sent a quick text to Peter, saying that they had found the goblin and they were on their way. They stood in unison before shifting and running towards where they knew the rest of the pack was.

* * *

After sending a message to the pack saying they should regroup, Peter continued scouring the field, keeping an eye on Stiles in his peripheral vision. The younger boy had refused to take his eyes off the clearing, searching for something Peter couldn’t see, all the while writing something down in a little black book. He had retrieved the little black book from his suitcase and had not put it down. When asked, his answer had been ‘children shouldn’t touch blood magic’.

Stiles sighed, bored, “When are the rest of the pack getting here?”

“Soon.” Peter replied tersely. Patience had never been a big part of his personality; when he wanted something done right away, it was done right away. `

Finally, Derek came in first, leading the pack like the true second in command he was. Stopping fully, Isaac took his phone out his pocket and showed Stiles the picture he had taken of the Goblin.

Nodding, Stiles confirmed that it was indeed the Goblin, and that they should be ready for attack, seeing as the Fae village was nearby.

“Honestly, why can’t they just settle their differences like normal people?” Allison complained, notching an arrow. She took aim at a tree, stretching her bow back in practice. Next to her, Erica nodded in agreement.

“Seems like they need to get their shit together.” She lounged lazily, leaning against Boyd.

“How do you intend to capture them?” Derek asked Stiles.

Stiles shrugged, simply saying, “Probably gonna freeze them or something.”

“Probably?!” and “Something?!” Were Scott and Jackson’s incredulous reactions. Their skeptic expression did not ease when Stiles decided to sit down, flipping through his black book nonchalantly. His unworried posture made some of the pack- Peter and Isaac- calm down a little, but all-in-all, Stiles could admit he wasn’t exactly being the perfect image of reassuring.

After a while, Stiles dozed off, soft snores filling the clearing. Peter paced around next to him, waiting anxiously for any sign of the Goblins. So far, nothing exciting had happened. Just when he was about to give up, Peter saw something rustle out of the corner of his eye. He was on his feet in second, alerting the rest of the pack and lightly touching Stiles’ shoulder, intending to wake him up. His hand, however, passed right through.

Jumping back in shock, Peter growled at the illusion, and it was willed away. Turning back to the rustling, Peter stared in shock as Stiles came through the clearing, holding an ugly little creature in his hands. Stiles’ face was pinched in disgust and he was clearly grimacing, his fingers trying to touch the skin of the creature as less as possible. Finally standing before them, Stiles dropped the creature, relieved that he would no longer have to touch it.

“What the fuck just happened?” Peter snarled at Stiles, asking a question but making at come out as an order to explain.

Stiles rolled his eyes, “I placed an illusion and went to see if the Goblins were around; there was no point in telling you seeing as it didn’t take long.”

Poking the thing with a stick, Scott and Isaac oohed and ahhed, wanting to know more. Jackson hovered over their shoulders and Lydia was on the other side, rummaging through the Goblin’s clothes with an expression of disgust and distaste.

“Would have been nice to know.” Peter grouched, pouting.

“Don’t worry. If you think you aren’t gonna see any action, we have the rest of the Goblins to find. And I was told to only bring one in for questioning.” Stiles smirked mischievously, twisting the Assembly’s words. Peter allowed himself a brief smile before turning to the Goblin.

“Goblin,” Stiles called, attracting its attention. “I have been sent here by The Assembly of All things Magical.”

“You are to answer my questions, or you shall suffer the same fate as your brother just did moments prior to your capture.”

The Goblin snarled, mouth gargling words through sharp teeth. It hissed at Stiles, words jumbled and strung together randomly. But to Stiles, they seemed to make perfect sense.

“Don’t make me kill you, cretin. I will have my answers, whether you like it or not. Do not think that I will not bring hell fire upon your village, burning your children to the ground.” Stiles never thought he’d see the day where he’d be threatening a creature with its family. The Goblin payed him no mind though, dismissing his words as hollow threats.

Seeing that his words got no reaction but hissing and screeching, Stiles stepped close, bending until he was nose to nose with the Goblin. It spit at him, snarling once more. Stiles payed it no heed, instead, letting his fingers tips gently touch the Goblins face, spreading a thin layer of ice.

“I wonder what you would like as a statue in the great halls of the Assembly.” It pained him to compliment the stupid old bats, but if there was once thing the Goblins hated more than Fae Folk; it was the Assembly. “You would be a monument to the fall of your nation. The Assembly will bask in the glory of defeating you once and for all. And, I bet you’ll look much better in ice than in real life.” He went in for the kill. “Who knows, maybe they’ll put in a Goblin Altar, meant for your heads, with your king’s right in the middle.

The Goblin screeched, flinching back as Stiles let more ice spread over its twisted skin. The Goblin broke, speaking rapidly and nervously, frantically tugging at its binds. Stiles listened attentively, devoting every little piece of information to memory. After a few more confessions, Stiles was satisfied. He stepped back and took out his phone, stopping the recording. This would be all the evidence he needed.

Hesitantly breaking the silence, Jackson voiced what everyone had on their mind, “So… what are we going to do with it?”

All Stiles said was, “Leave that to me.”

Walking closer, Stiles smiled happily.

“Hey, sorry buddy, but it seems like we can’t let you go.” He opened his little black book cheerfully “So, I’m going to have to kill you now.”

Ignoring the Goblins renewed squealing, Stiles placed his thumb between the Goblin’s eyes and murmured under his breath. The Goblin let out a scream, long and throat-scratching. Ice spread quickly, crawling over its body and quickly incasing it. Stiles placed his hand over the creatures chest and pushed in, his whole hand disappearing. It shouldn’t have been possible; you couldn’t do that to ice. Abruptly, he pulled his hand out, holding a small little ball. It was a glimmering silver, and Peter wondered how something so small and pretty could have been inside such an ugly thing.

The Goblin statue shattered, little pieces of ice raining down around them. Lydia yelped, jumping out of the way. Unlike the Wolves, she wasn’t indestructible. Rolling the little ball in palm, Stiles peered at it, squinting.

Peter peered at the ball curiously before asking, “What the fuck was that?”

Stiles shuffled over to the pack, letting them crowd closer to see the ball. “It’s the Goblin’s soul. Each creature has a soul like this, some are different colors of sizes but they all have one thing in common: they are shaped into spheres.”

“Do we have them?” Jackson asked, curious.

“Yes. Normally werewolves would have different sized souls, but some packs have two souls: one for the pack and one individually.” Stiles explained.

He pocketed the ball, patting it securely to insure that it wouldn’t come out.

“Are we going to do that with all the Goblins?”

“Nah, I’m too lazy for that.”

* * *

After finding the rest of the Goblin troops and letting the wolves have a go at them, Stiles scoured the army, trying to find one Goblin in particular. When he spotted one, he nodded. This Goblin was shouting out what sounded like orders, pointing an ugly finger at some of the Goblins.

Stealthily walking over, Stiles slunk behind a tree, watching the Goblin’s every movement. It remained resolutely obliviously, ordering more Goblins to go fight the wolves, who had by this point in time eliminated half the Goblin army. Stiles spotted Derek ruthlessly ripping a Goblin in half, snarling at its severed head. He could see an arrow whiz pass him, most likely from Allison’s place in the tree. It struck the eye of an unsuspecting Goblin, wrenching a scream from the fallen creature.

Now fully behind the Goblin, Stiles placed a palm flat on the ground, feeling the rush of the earth underneath him. Slowly carving out a circle, Stiles took out his little black book, eyeing the multiple blood spells. When his eyes landed on the one he needed, he grasped his knife. Setting the book to his side, he gently cut the back of his hand, letting his blood spill over the circle. Then, he cut his fingers, making sure to tip his hand, letting the blood slip down to the previous cut. Placing his palm on the ground again, Stiles began chanting, making the ground bubble and sharp spikes rise rapidly. Lifting his hand slightly, Stiles pointed his index finger at the Goblin. While doing this, the dried blood on his hand glowed. Almost immediately, the ground shook, roaring as it sped towards the alarmed Goblin. Reaching its target, the ground rose, creating a dome around the Goblin, protruding spikes to insure that no other Goblin would come near.

Panting, Stiles narrowed his eyes in concentration. He then pointed his finger to the ground, pushing down forcefully. The ground flattened, giving one final roar as it settled. Planting both hands on the ground, Stiles leaned forward, cleaning the ground in front of him. Closing his eyes, Stiles took a deep breath, finally registering the pain in his hand, but he ignored it for now. Next to him he felt someone huff before something rough licked his face; Peter.

Tilting his head, Stiles opened his eyes, running a hand through Peter’s fur. The wolfed huffed, gently nipping at his face. Peter then whined, nosing Stiles’ injured hand. Behind them, Stiles saw Boyd give a Derek a look. Before Stiles could wonder what the look meant, Peter nudged his hand gently, nuzzling into his palm.

Feeling another nudge, Stiles smiled, huffing out a laugh before pushing Peter’s face away playfully. He stood up slowly, eyes racking over the damaged clearing. The banging inside the dome had ceased, and Stiles felt warm hands touching the small of his back. Peter had shifted, eyeing the dome suspiciously.  

“Don’t worry, it’s just keeping the Goblin trapped for the Assembly.” Stiles reassured. “They wanted a Goblin bought in for a more a ‘detailed’” Peter could tell that Stiles meant more than just talking. “Interrogation.”

“So that thing isn’t getting out?” Derek clarified. He too was eyeing the dome like Peter. It seemed as though werewolves had an aversion to domes, Stiles thought, or maybe that was just him. A hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the matter at hand; the dome.

Grimacing slightly, Stiles dug into his pocket, making sure to avoid using his injured hand. Fishing out his phone, Stiles dialed Deaton, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Hello Stiles,” How the fuck did Deaton even know it was him? Stiles had changed his number multiple times in order to evade being called by Erynn. “The Assembly will be there in a few minutes. Don’t call me again, I’m in the middle of an operation.” He hung up, leaving Stiles to stare at the phone in befuddlement. The pack watched, bemused, as Stiles stared blankly at the phone for a few more minutes, simply gaping.

Shaking his head, Stiles pushed that thought of his mind; he could ponder about Deaton’s creepiness later, when he was not tired and injured. Settling down near a tree, Stiles absentmindedly picked at a root, wondering why Peter and the pack kept shifting uncomfortably. When Derek coughed awkwardly, and Scott scratched the back his neck sheepishly, Stiles broke, asking them,

“Any reason you guys are acting like you just murdered someone?” He raised an eyebrow.

When neither Scott nor Derek answered, Allison interjected, “Look, Stiles, we’re just worried about you; you’re practically falling asleep. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you told us that you just did blood magic.” She snorted indelicately, look at Stiles with keen eyes, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid this.

“Guys, seriously, I’m fine.” Seeing their unconvinced looks, Stiles flailed his arms, gesturing to his body wildly. “See, no cuts, no bruises, not even a little bump. Even my hand is all healed and perfect.” He pointed at his hand, and indeed, the cuts had healed, and the blood had miraculously disappeared.

However, despite his dramatic display, they remained unconvinced, so Stiles plopped back down, pouting. He continued to sulk, head turning to the side in disdain while he waited for the Assembly to arrive. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, no matter what the pack seemed to think. Yes, his plans didn’t always work out well, and sure, there was a nasty cut to his side where the previously interrogated Goblin had slashed him with a serrated blade, but other than that; he was fine.

Suddenly, the air thickened, a loud horn resounding through the air. The werewolves in the pack flinched, clenching their ears with their hands and growling in discomfort. Stiles glanced up sharply, standing fluidly while eyeing a tree to his side. The air shimmered, blurring the bark and fading it out of existence. As though the tree were a door, it opened, giving way to an old man, dressed lightly in jeans and a tee. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and his beard was braided.

A tattoo on the man’s arm caught Stiles’ eye, and he gasped, realizing who it was, “Jones?!”

“The one and only,” Jones bowed flamboyantly. He then peered over his glasses, taking in the bloodied scenery with unimpressed eyes. “I see you haven’t changed from you messy ways.”

“Hey, blame the wolves; I was completely neat.” Stiles argued.

Jones arched an eyebrow, pointedly looking towards the ragged land where Stiles had risen the earth. Stiles shrugged, sheepishly looking away from Jones, and started whistling an innocent tune. Jones remained resolutely unimpressed. Quick to get away from the judgmental stare, Stiles led him over to the dome, crumbling it by placing his previously cut hand on the earth. Chanting, he let it reveal the chained Goblin.

It snarled, hissing and screeching, resembling the other one Stiles had caught- granted they all looked the same. Unchaining it, Stiles murmured lowly to jones, explaining the situation and handing him the phone. Playing the recording, Jones nodded solemnly, pocketing the phone and dragging the Goblin away by the neck. He disappeared through the tree door.

Yawning, Stiles stretched his arms over his head. He looked towards and slipped his hand into Peter’s, ignoring his surprised look. He walked back towards the street, swinging his and Peter’s arms. Boyd sent Derek another look, pointedly gesturing towards their interlocked hands.

“Not that this isn’t great,” Peter said sarcastically. “But what are you doing?” He didn’t exactly mind having Stiles’ hand in his, it was just strange.

“Leading us home.”

Peter let a smile cross his face; Stiles had said ‘home’.

“Do you know which way it is?”

“I really should learn the directions shouldn’t I?”

“That would be best.”

 


	9. She Ran, Haven't Seen Her Since

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding out about Derek's family. More evil stuff. Another Pack. Murder case that is relevant to the story, so don't worry. John angst because I love a good dash of angst. Stiles' background, only a teeny bit. More in the next chapter. Oh, and a bit of the famous Beatles. Just the song 'Yesterday'. Derek angst, cause I love Derek and his broodiness. He might seem a little OOC, but it's a fanfic, so... yeah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, updates are not as frequent because I have exams, which are a pain in the ass. The length of this chapter is pretty long, but really not that much happens. Also, there might be some big story line, I'm not sure. I just kind of want this fic to be little cases and fights, or bonding moments, but I am thinking about. 
> 
> Anyways, do you guys want Cora in the story because I'm kind of confused over her. I can't really write her all that well. Hope ya enjoy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf

“What happened to you guys?!” John exclaimed, looking over the bruised pack. He eyes skimmed over, particularly interested in the interlocked hands. John wasn’t sure if this was as significant as it seemed, but the way Boyd and Derek shook their heads insured that he kept his mouth shut. Stiles seemed uncaring of his worry, simply waving a hand nonchalantly and saying that some trouble had happened and that it was alright.

Remembering something, Stiles stepped forward, saying, “Dad, I have some stuff to pick up from home. You think you could take me now?”

John nodded, but his eyes saddened at the thought of Stiles never coming back home to live with him. But John knew he couldn’t expect Stiles to do something as important as that for him, so he kept his mouth shut and ignored Peter’s sympathetic look.

Extracting his hand from Peter’s, Stiles walked up to John, placing an understanding hand on his shoulder with a knowing look in his eyes. John felt his own eyes widen before realizing that his son was older than he thought, and he surely wouldn’t have missed the slump in John’s posture or the way his eyes had glazed with sorrow. It bought him closure as well as sadness to know that his son knew more than he thought. Stiles was no longer the little boy John could fool with smiles and well-said words; he was a man, in every sense of the word, but also a child who had grown up far too quickly.

He heard the car door shut gently behind him, and with his head bowed low, John kept his gaze stubbornly away from the pack as he walked to his police car. Stiles was fiddling with the radio, listening to the latest trashy pop song before switching to another one song. John backed the car out of the drive way and drove off, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he caught Peter’s eye in the mirror; Peter shook his head sadly.

John tuned back in just in time to hear Stiles settle on The Beatles’ _Yesterday_. The song was low and calming, Paul McCartney's soothing vocals washing over them lightly. It reminded him of a time where Claudia would sing to Stiles, and the only reason John could remember some lyrics were because they described her death so accurately.

_Why she had to go, I don’t know_

_She wouldn’t say_

_“Oh Claudia, I wish I could do something to take away all the pain but I can’t; I’m just a man.”_

_“It’s for the best, John.”_

_“How is your death for the best?!”_

John shook his head, ridding away his previously haunted voice. How his beloved wife had ever been able to say that had always befuddled him, even to this day, when she no longer lived. Next to him, Stiles fidgeted awkwardly, fingers tapping against his knees, and his leg bouncing up and down nervously. He snuck a glance at his father out of the corner of his eye, only to catch John looking at him. They both looked away in unison, throats clogged in discomfort. Finally, Stiles slapped his fingers to the increase volume button, not stopping until all he could hear was John Lennon.

When they arrived at the house, Stiles smiled nostalgically, remembering the lovely trimmed flowers and the oak tree in the background, he vaguely wondered if the swing was still hanging. John walked up front, unlocking the door deftly before leaving it open for Stiles. He walked in cautiously, looking at the house with attentive eyes and a look of wonderment. The house was prim and polished, just the way his mother had liked it, but some table tops were covered with dust, and the china vase that had been sitting upon a mahogany stand was gone, more likely than not broken.

Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen was messy. Plates left in the sink and multiple files spread across the marble counter. The police insignia on top of the files insured that they were his dad’s cases, and curious, Stiles lifted one up gingerly, eyeing the picture of a scruffy man with interest.

“Guess your love for looking at my cases hasn’t changed.” John mused, bringing Stiles back to reality. He flushed before looking back at the file unashamedly.

“Who is he?” Stiles asked, head gesturing to the photo of the man.

“Roland Shrake,” John scowled tiredly, looking at the picture with disgust. “He’s one of our suspects for a murder that occurred recently.” Grasping another file, John flipped it open, pointing to the picture of a happily smiling woman. Her lovely blue eyes twinkled happily and her grey dyed hair stood out against the bleak background; if Stiles was even a bit straight, he probably would have found her more than just pretty “Maria Casola was found dead in her apartment three months ago. Shrake was her ex, as well as a regular at her flower shop. We have two other suspects but he’s the one we’ve got our eye on.”

“How was she killed?” Stiles asked.

“Knife. Four cuts to the neck, a stab wound to the chest and sever head trauma.”

“Seems like someone really wanted her dead.” Stiles hummed. “Was she involved in anything less than innocent? Drugs, debts, prison records?”

“Nothing,” John clarified, brows furrowing in frustration. “She was involved with nothing. We’ve checked her background, as well as her parents and all we could find was that she grew up in Boston before moving here. She went to a local university and her grades were average; nothing specials sticks out”

“So just another normal florist.” Stiles said. “There’s really nothing to her but the murder.”

“Exactly,” John slammed a hand down on the counter, leaning forward in annoyance. “So there’s no evidence that she could have done something. Shrake has been in a temporary holding cell for now, but he’s getting ready to call a lawyer if we keep him any longer.”

“Dead end.” Stiles stated grimly, placing a hand on the file. “There’s really nothing you can do but try to get as much information as possible. What about finger prints? Or asking neighbors and friends? Employees? Relatives?” Stiles questioned, hopeful.

“We’re in the process of it, but so far the only interesting thing that’s come up is she was caught leaving with him the day before her murder. But we need more substantial evidence than that.” John fisted his hand. “I know it’s him though; I can feel it.”

“Seems like everything points to him.” Stiles agreed. “I’ll look into it, if you want.”

John nodded hesitantly, unwilling to drag his son into the case. “I’ll think about it.”

Realizing that this was the closest to an agreement he was going to get, Stiles nodded acceptably. The whole case rubbed him the wrong way. Maria Casola was an average lady who worked as a florist, and Roland Shrake looked strangely familiar in a way. The man’s scruffy appearance had initially reminded Stiles of a shady drug dealer, but the way his eyes seemed to glint yellow assured Stiles that he was much more. Unwilling to worry his dad further, Stiles kept quiet about the aura of supernatural seemingly surrounding the man, and instead went to the fridge, pulling out a beer he knew his father was bound to have.

Groaning, Stiles sighed as the cooling beer slid down his throat. His feet led him to the stairs and one by one he stepped up. The stairs creaked lightly, reminding Stiles of how hard it had been to sneak around when he was younger. The amount of trouble he had gotten in because of these stairs could have been enough to give his father gray hairs. The first door was his fathers and minding his own business, Stiles carefully kept his gaze away from the door.

His own door looked untouched. And knowing that his father was a sentimental idiot, no matter how much he denied, Stiles crouched down and looked underneath a the small carpet outside his door.

A key. Small and tiny, with a piece of paper that held Stiles’ crude handwriting on it. “Property of Stiles” it said. He could remember the time when his room had been the only personal thing he loved more than curly fries.

It touched him to know that his father had left it here. Grasping the key, Stiles fit it into the lock and turned, opening the door nervously. It was clean, surprisingly. His bed was made and no clothes littered the floor. His small closet was still filled to the brim with superhero t-shirts and books. And also surprising: most of his toys were still there. The little teddy bear his mother had bought him was still resting on his bed. It was a room stuck in time, and Stiles felt his eyes prick with tears at the memory of his childhood.

Looking everything over, Stiles fell to his knees in front of his bed and pried open a floorboard. It creaked in protest before budging and revealing hidden scroll. Magic had been the center of Stiles’ life ever since he was a child and even though he hadn’t understood it properly, he had known deep inside that researching would help. And unlike most normal children, asking his parents had been eliminated from the moment he had figured out what magic was.

With no support from his parents, child Stiles- hey, that rhymes! - had ventured all on his own, and what had seemed like a great journey had only been a few minutes’ walk to the local gypsy. She had been surprisingly understanding and had handed him scroll, albeit a fake one, that had helped him a lot. It helped him understand that magic wasn’t at all like they pictured it in movies. Magic was balance and blood. It thrummed inside you; it was a living, breathing thing. It could die like you; it could be wounded like you. Magic was something to be cherished for all of eternity, but humanity had lost it. Magic was a mere shadow of what it once was.

When the Gypsy had failed, Stiles had searched the whole neighborhood for someone to understand. After endless days of searching, he had finally found his ray of hope; his own little answer.

Her name was Roxanne. And she was the closest thing to Grandma he had ever had.

At first sight, he had thought her an old woman who would do him no good. But when she had slapped him on the back of the head and said “You won’t get anywhere if you keep looking for Gypsies.” He had known: Roxanne would be the perfect choice.

Problem was, she didn’t want to be his mentor. Her patience for little kids had been close to none-existent. Being a little loudmouth hadn’t put him in her good graces either. But even as a little kid he had known that if he was going to get any answers, she would be his best bet. So with that in mind, he had dragged his little body out of bed at 6 a.m. and had stood in front of her house. Every day he would insistently ask her to help him; every day she would respond with a curt ‘No’ before sitting on her porch, ignoring him.

Finally, after six months of asking, rejecting and pleading, she gave in. She took him inside and sat him down. Dumped a book on his lap and said read. Even than Stiles had been smart enough to know that she was going back outside to smoke. His little hands had clutched the book and despite the long words, he had gotten through the whole book by the time she had come back inside, expecting to find a lost little boy, she found a proud one. It continued like this until she died. He was given all her books, and yet, he could never fully open them without remembering her smoky breath. 

“I wonder how much trouble the old hag has caused in Heaven- fuck it, she’s probably in Hell.”  Stiles muttered lowly, nostalgia flooding him. It made him wonder if she was happy, or if she was proud of what h had become. Probably not, Stiles was a failure after all, he couldn’t even-

“Stiles, you okay buddy?” John’s voice cut off his slowly darkening thought. Stuffing the scroll back in the floor, Stiles shout an ‘I’m okay’ down to his father. Standing up, he patted his knees absentmindedly, walking out the door to go to the small storage room. His hand closed around the doorknob before he jerked back, eyes widening in shock. The silver of the knob glinted maliciously, dark magic covering it.

Something was in the house. And if he was right, that something was inside his storage.

Cautiously stepping back, Stiles waited until he was a few feet away before breaking out into a sprint. Rushing down the stairs and calling for his father. John came out the kitchen, frantic eyes immediately glued to his son’s beat but tense form.

“What, what’s wrong?” John asked.

“Something’s inside the house. The storage room doorknob is covered in dark magic.” Stiles explained, ushering John out the house while keeping keen eyes on his surroundings.

“What?!” John said. “But… I haven’t noticed anything.”

“The creature must have been here for some time; it’s left a lot of residue behind. I didn’t notice it before but the air felt heavy when I entered the house.” Stiles jumped into the passenger seat, keeping his eyes locked on the house in front of him.

“We going to Peter’s?”

“Yeah, he’ll keep us safe until I can get everything ready for a cleansing.”

* * *

 

The drive was silent. John’s fingers tapped nervously at the steering wheel while Stiles leafed through a pamphlet lying around in one of the compartments. Neither said a word, both too tense and uncomfortable knowing something was in the house while John had been living in there. Stiles would forever be grateful for his dad’s bad sleeping habits. And lack of cleaning. It meant John would never enter the storage room unless he had something important to find in there.  

Once in the driveway, John only then became aware of his crushing grip on the steering wheel when Stiles pried them loose. Placing questioning eyes on Stiles, he received a shake of the head, as well as a slight pat on his hands. Stiles had mulled over his thoughts for the entire ride, leaving a confused John to dwell in his own thoughts. It surprised him to know that the thing he had worried over was not of the evil hiding in his house, but rather how long it had been there.

John watched as Stiles jumped out of the car, greeting a tense Derek at the door. Sighing, John followed his example and greeted Derek. The younger man nodded sympathetically before closing the door behind them. Derek’s movements were tired, and yet he moved with all the grace of a wolf. It stunned John to know that even in the throes of fatigue, Derek would step up and take his Alpha’s role without a second thought.

“Why does this always happen to us?” Someone whined behind a door, and John couldn’t have agreed more. It seemed as though Stiles had trouble following him for quite some time now, and it ached John to know that Stiles had gone so many years in his life alone with no one to protect him.

Leading them to the door, Derek led them into a small room with a table and a T.V. The first thing John noticed was that some of the pack was asleep, seeing as Danny and Lydia were leaning against each other, breathing deeply, stuck in the blissfulness of sleep after a long day. The rest of the pack were spread out, each in various degrees of tiredness.

Plopping down on a chair, Derek sent the two Stilinski men a questioning look. He knew that something had happened, according to their distressed smell, and if Derek was correct, it was something bad.

Stiles cut straight to the point. “Something’s in my house; something that shouldn’t be in there.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed, forehead creasing in confusion. From what he had seen, the sheriff didn’t seem like someone that the supernatural would cling to. Perhaps it was Stiles’ presence that had attracted them to the sheriff, and the magic leaking from Stiles in small waves certainly didn’t help the problem. Flicking his eyes to John, Derek eased when he saw the man shrug, and slump in his own chair.

“Peter’s currently away, probably talking to the Pack that came here a few hour ago. We’ll discuss this in the morning.” Turning to Stiles, he asked. “Or do you think it’s going to move or do something?”

“From what I can tell, it’s probably been there for a couple of months.” Stiles said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Moving now is a very unlikely.”

Nodding satisfied, Derek let out a relieved sigh. At least they wouldn’t be dealing with yet another problem straight after the Goblin fiasco.

“You can have the spare room John” Derek said. “You already know where your room is Stiles.”

Clapping Derek on the shoulder, John followed him to the spare room. Happy to finally be able to sleep in a safe environment where nothing could harm him. Now alone, the influx of thoughts finally hit him, forcing him to face them. It terrified him to know that his own house, the only thing he had really considered safe, wasn’t safe at all. In fact, it was plagued by evil that John would have never known about, and he would have gone on obliviously, unaware of something lurking in his closet. If it wasn’t for Stiles, who knows what it would have done to him. It also confused him as to why the thing was in his house and not somewhere else. He didn’t remember pissing off any spirits or summoning the supernatural. The only supernatural thing he had known up until now were magical people and werewolves. As well as banshees and druids, who were technically magic any way. He really didn’t know much about this sort of stuff, leaving him defenseless. Shaking his head to rid the thoughts, John decided that sleeping was a good idea.

* * *

 

Back down stairs, Stiles rubbed his face tiredly before running a hand through his disheveled hair. Once again, the situation had become difficult and to make things worse, Stiles hadn’t the faintest idea what was in his house. It could be anything now that he thought about it. Any supernatural creature could be lurking in his house, waiting for them to come home. He was just glad it hadn’t done anything to his dad. John already seemed to have enough on his plate, and adding something dark to it was not helping.

Heaving a great sigh, Stiles stood up, muttering a tired good night to the rest of the pack before going to his room. Somewhere to his left, a door creaked open, signifying someone’s entrance. Quickly glancing down the hallway, Stiles so nothing out of the ordinary. The hale house was still pretty big, and Stiles hadn’t had time to explore with everything going on. Looking around and seeing nothing, Stiles cautiously went down the hallway, spotting a door left ajar. Peeking through, he could see someone sitting on the ground. When Stiles made to step forward, his footing slipped, making him stumble into the room. The person whipped around, and Stiles could see that it was Derek.

“Sorry-I just heard the door open and wanted to investigate- really sorry- I didn’t even know it was you, and I was gonna leave but I fell and… yeah.” Stiles stuttered, hands rubbing the back of his sheepishly. In front of him, Derek simply arched a thick eyebrow, shoulders slumping. He turned around. Derek’s head tilted to the side, one hand patting the vacant spot next to him. Taking the invitation, Stiles plopped down beside him, and he finally saw what Derek was looking at.

An array of old photographs were scattered across the floor, all blurred, fuzzy or black and white. They were clearly old. There seemed to be nothing special about them till Stiles caught sight of a young looking Peter holding the hand of a small boy. The little boy was pouting, black hair ruffled, but what really caught Stiles’ attention was the little marking on his arm; the same one Derek had.

“Is that you?” He gasped, picking the picture up gingerly, as though it was made of fragile glass. Derek nodded next to him, briefly looking at the picture before he looked away. Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off it. Little Derek was adorable, but what really caught his attention was young Peter. The man was smirking at the camera, still looking the same as he did nowadays. Stiles could see the lack of worry lines and scars. It made him look young and carefree.

Picking up another picture, Stiles was faced with an unfamiliar woman who smiled at the camera, holding a baby girl in her arms.

“Who’s this?” Stiles asked, pointing at the lady. He noticed how Derek’s eyes saddened and how his lips curled nostalgically.

“That my mom and my sister, Cora.” Derek responded, taking the picture from Stiles, who handed it willingly.

“What happened to her?”

“She got stuck in a pack rivalry… she didn’t make it.” Derek responded lowly, tongue sneaking out to lick chapped lips. “Cora’s… I don’t know.”

“Don’t know?”

“She ran away one day, when she was younger; haven’t seen her since.” Derek let the photo flutter to the ground, eyes dropping to the ground. He seemed saddened, and Stiles wished he hadn’t bought up the conversation. It set off his instinct to make everything better, and even though Derek was older than him, Stiles wanted to mother him and care for him.

Slinging an arm over Derek’s shoulder, Stiles offered a silent comfort, there was nothing more he could do for the dark werewolf but offer his comfort. Derek leaned in gratefully, soaking up the physical comfort even though it was very unlike him. Stiles was kind, almost like a younger brother. There was nothing romantic about this silent hug, and Derek wouldn’t dare, knowing that Peter would probably have a slight problem with that, even if he didn’t know it yet.

Catching sight of another photo, one with Peter and a girl. Peter had a hand placed on her head, ruffling it while she frowned. Her resemblance to Talia seemed uncanny, but Stiles knew right away that it wasn’t Cora. Spotting that Stiles was interested, Derek piped up.

“That’s Laura, my older sister.” He pick up the photo, pointing at the little girl. “She also died in the fight. Mom decided to let her fight, but it got worse, and a member managed to-“ Derek cut off, looking away. Stiles pretended not to see the tears, knowing Derek needed his privacy.

“You don’t have to go on.”

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.”

No other words were spoken as Stiles continued to offer him comfort. They sat in comfortable silence as the front door slammed open. Stiles jumped slightly but didn’t evacuate from his position next to Derek.  

Peter slammed the door open, fuming. The stupid Pack had decided that staying for a couple of days would be fine. Couldn’t the bumbling fool see that having another wolf Pack would disturb the balance and the creatures living around the forest? It would just cause strife and imbalance, which Peter really didn’t need right now. Stalking through the house, Peter stopped abruptly, smelling something akin to sadness and empathy. It lead him to a room down the hallway.

Looking through the door, he saw Stiles and Derek sitting on the floor. It surprised and warmed him knowing that Stiles was already talking care of the pack. Even from his vantage point, he could see the pictures and old trinkets laid across the floor. He knew of Derek’s problem with sitting in this room and mourning over his lost family, contemplating the ‘what-if’s’ of life. Derek would also question himself, wondering why Cora had left him and if it was all his fault. Perhaps Stiles, who hadn’t been part of the pack for long, could tell Derek that it wasn’t healthy to keep doing this. Peter himself had tried to no avail, and even Deaton, who normally would not get into personal business, tried to persuade him. Maybe Stiles would be enough to convince him to stop.

Maybe Stiles would be the savior they were waiting for.  


	10. "I'm Sorry"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More confusion. Stiles and the pack take on the problem and a new problem is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm late, but "I'm afraid I got lost on the path of life". If you know where that quote is from, you're awesome. This chapter doesn't have a lot of Peter in it, just in the beginning. I'm ashamed I didn't post this sooner, I'm sorry. This is also the beginning of an arc in this story, so if it seems confusing, it's meant to be. Also, if you see anything wrong grammatically or spelling wise, I would love to know so I can fix it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf.

He woke up to ringing. It was loud and incessant and probably right next to him, but John couldn’t find it in himself to answer it. The shrill ringing continued until it abruptly stopped, and John sighed in relief, eyes drooping with the need to sleep. Finally, when he was at the brink of sleep, he was startled awake by the renewed ringing. Grunting in annoyance, John pushed himself up, rubbing at his eyes to rid away the sleep.

Hand blindly reaching for the phone, he paid no mind to the sun light streaming through the window, bathing the room in warm yellows and oranges. Flipping the phone opened, John squinted, leaning forward so he could see the caller ID.

Answering, he grumbled. “Sherriff Stilinski, and who might this be?”

The next few words made his blood run cold, “Sir, Roland Shrake is gone.” The tone of his partner is breathless and shocked, as though even he cannot quite believe.

“What?” John asks dumbly, stunned in place. There was no way the man could have escaped. They had guards watching that cell all night, and yet, the man had disappeared without a trace and what was stranger; there was no evidence of him having been there before. It was as if Roland Shrake’s existence had been made up. No one could just disappear from a holding cell without being caught on camera, but the man had somehow done it. If that didn’t scream supernatural assistance, John didn’t know what did.

“He’s gone. We’re checking the security footage and nothings coming up, it’s completely blank. Sir, no guard saw him leave, it’s almost like they’ve forgotten the last 24 hours in general.” His partner’s voice lowered into a whisper, as though he was telling John a sacred secret. In the background, John could hear the ruckus: people shouting, machines whirring, and the sound of something banging against wood.

“Look, we’ll talk later. It sounds like you’ve got world war three going on behind you.” John murmured his goodbyes. Rubbing a hand tiredly over his face, he heaved a great sigh before rolling out of bed.

This new dilemma was certainly fishy, and it would require him to do something John was hoping to avoid. He going to have to ask Stiles for his help. And his reluctance wasn’t because he though Stiles would mess up, rather, it was fear _for_ Stiles. Whether Stiles liked to admit it or not, strange things had always happened to him, and if this was yet another creature drawn to Stiles, John was going to have to invest in some serious help, specifically from a certain wolf.

Throwing on his jacket, John ran a hand through his unruly hair, deciding it was fine enough. He flew down the stairs, writing a note for Stiles on the white board attached to the fridge.

It was fairly nice, he mused, that Stiles had a second home that he could go to whenever he was upset or in danger. It was also nice that John himself was allowed to enter it. He knew werewolves could become very territorial of their space, and just to allow John- who barely knew them- into it, meant a lot to him. 

* * *

 

Hearing the door shut, Peter groaned lowly before getting up. He had heard the ringing the moment it had started and though a part of him knew nobody wanted to answer the phone this early, he couldn’t help but be annoyed when John hadn’t immediately picked up.

Padding over to the bathroom, Peter glanced at himself in the mirror, frowning when he caught sign of the bags underneath his eyes. Sleep had been scarce these past few days. So scarce that Peter would find himself pacing in the kitchen, sipping at whatever he could find in the wine cabinet. The pack seemed to be in danger more often nowadays.

Tugging on his clothes, he walked barefoot down the stairs, swift and sure, making no sound. Unlike the other day, Stiles wasn’t awake yet to make breakfast, probably because of ho worn out he had been yesterday.

Determined, Peter rolled up his sleeves, prepared to start breakfast. He couldn’t always rely on Stiles to make the whole pack breakfast. Chores had to be equal around here, or else some people, like Scott and Isaac, would simply skip out on them. That’s why Peter separated work around the house evenly, and while most of the pack had their own activities planned, they all had to take some time off to do their chores. Peter was strict in that way.

Carefully setting a pan on the stove, he reached for the nob and turned up the heat. Cooking eggs seemed like an easy enough process. After cracking the egg, Peter was unsure of what do next. He knew that he had to let the egg cook a little before flipping it over, but for how long? Glancing at the eggs periodically, Peter quickly snuck a glance at the stairs, hoping against all odds that Stiles would come down and help him before the house was on fire. Glancing back at the eggs, Peter found that it had burnt.

Grunting in disappointment, he trashed it. Okay, so maybe eggs weren’t his strong fort. Onto the bread. Deciding that the easy way was probably a better idea now, Peter plugged in the toaster and inserted his bread. Pushing the lever down, he sighed when nothing bad happened. Plopping down on a seat, he glanced at his watch, deciding that the pack wouldn’t wake until it was 9 o’clock, maybe 10 if they were feeling particularly lazy. Plenty of time to finish cooking.

Leaning his face against his hand, Peter waited. After a couple of minutes, he glanced at the toaster in confusion; wasn’t it supposed to ding or something? Peter was sure bread didn’t take that long to heat up.

Stopping the toaster, Peter glared when the bread came up charcoal black. Growling lowly, he grabbed the burnt toast, paying no mind to the burning temperature. Throwing it in the bin aggressively, Peter stomped his foot in frustrations, not pausing to think about how much his attitude resembled a child throwing a tantrum.

“God fucking damnit,” He muttered. “What kind of Alpha can’t even make toast properly?!”

“Just you Peter, just you.” An amused voice spoke from behind him.

Whirling around, Peter spotted a grinning Stiles leaning against the door, looking rumpled. The younger man was still dressed in a pair of batman shorts and a grey t-shirt. How he had managed to sneak up on Peter, wolfy power and all, he’ll never know.

“How long have you been standing there?” Peter asked, slightly embarrassed. None of them should see him failing at everyday things. There was a reason Peter doesn’t make breakfast.

“I came down when you put the egg in the trash,” Stiles admitted. “I hid behind the door so you wouldn’t seem me.”

“Help me.”

“Sure.”

Padding over so he was standing next to Peter, Stiles leant against the counter so he could reach for the long-forgotten eggs.

“You want an omelet?” Stiles asked.

Peter nodded. He wasn’t good at any of this cooking stuff, but the least he could do was clean everything for Stiles.

“Ok. Omelet, pancakes, sausages, toast,” Stiles muttered to himself. “We’ll pre-make the coffee and tea. Get some juice as well because Allison always drinks it.”

It kinda surprised Peter that Stiles already knew so much about the pack, even though he’d been in Beacon Hills for the equivalent of a few days, almost a week. He already knew so much about the pack’s habits and quirks, and he wasn’t afraid or judgmental of them. Stiles was no saint, even Peter could see that, but the boy was honest and had genuinely tried to be nice, and Peter could respect that.

Cranking up the heat, Stiles let the pan heat up.

“Peter, go get eggs, flour, butter, milk, sugar and salt. Can you also get the sausages from the pantry? Thanks.” Stiles said. His hands rapidly crack eggs into a bowl. He adds seasoning, some vegetables, and a pinch of salt. Whisking it, he quickly pours some of it into the pan.

He works quickly and effortlessly, and Peter is stuck standing to the side, watching him with wide eyes. He can’t detect a waver in Stiles’ movement; the younger man has probably been in this scene more time than Peter can count. Sometimes he forgets that Stiles spent the majority of his life alone, fending for himself.

Within an hour, breakfast had been finished, with Peter and Stiles talking lowly to each other.

“I’m going to go visit my dad at the station, maybe take some breakfast with me.” Stiles said.

“I’m going to need to meet the visiting pack again.” Peter scowled in annoyance. “The Pack Alpha is an annoying little fucker.”

Stiles huffed out a slight laugh before plating the food and setting it on the table.

* * *

 

Swinging his arms absentmindedly, Stiles thought over the new problem. Spirits tended to take interests in broken homes, and Stiles knew his house was particularly broken, but somethings didn’t add up like they should have. If the creature was evil, it would have attacked already, not to say that Stiles wasn’t grateful it hadn’t. So it probably wasn’t a spirit. Another thing was the added factor of Maria Casola’s death, just three months prior. He murder was unexpected and unnecessary, as far as Stiles was concerned; why kill an innocent women? If it was Roland Shrake, and Stiles was a 102 percent sure it was, then the man would have to have had a reason. The whole case in general stunk of Supernatural assistance. Roland Shrake wouldn’t have had the expertise to kill her the way he had. The cuts had been sleek and fine; a cut usually made by a doctor or surgeon. It had also penetrated her neck too deeply, mimicking the cuts usually made by claws.

Shaking his head to rid the thoughts, Stiles focused on reaching the Police Station in one piece. His father had obviously left in a haste, judging by the messy scribble of words he had left for Stiles. And in his haste, he had forgotten to eat something, so Stiles was going to deliver him a hefty breakfast.

Catching sight of the station, Stiles pushed open the door, ignoring the various looks he got from wandering officers. Asking the receptionist at the front for the sheriff’s office, Stiles set down the hallway. Coming upon the door, he knocked briefly before pushing open the door.

Stiles blinked dumbly, stumped by the sight of what seemed to be billions of papers scoured all over the place. His father was practically pulling hair out, stressing over something so bad that he hadn’t even noticed Stiles entering the room.

“Dad?” Stiles called out attentively.

Startled, John looked up in surprise. His eyes were immediately drawn to the small container Stiles held.

“Stiles, what are you doing here?” John asked. “More importantly, what’s in the container?” He said jokingly, beckoning his son closer.

Setting the container down, Stiles answered, “Its breakfast dad, you know, the thing you seem to constantly miss out on.”

John swatted him lightly, moaning loudly when he took a bite of Stiles’ heavenly cooking. Even as a child, Stiles had loved cooking with a great passion, and while there wasn’t much a seven year old could do, Stiles made do with what he could.

“So,” Stiles piped up. “What’s going on? Your office looks like my room did when I was younger.”

Watching his dad become solemn, Stiles frowned in worry. The tenseness of John’s shoulders stuck out, as well as the furrow of his brow.

“Roland Shrake disappeared last night, no trace of him even ever being here.” Stiles’ eyes widened momentarily before narrowing lightly. This proved that something supernatural was going on. “Not to mention none of the guards remember anything about the night before.”

“Interesting,” Stiles mused. “There’s something supernatural going, and if I’m right, then it had something to do with our little problem at home.”

“You think whatever’s at home is helping Shrake?” John asked.

“Most likely.” Stiles assured. “Look, dad, I know it might seem like a bad idea, but we need to go home.”

Before Stiles had even finished his sentence, John was shaking his head, protesting reverently.

“No Stiles, I am not letting you go back in there,” John took no mind to Stiles’ objections. “Even you said it was malicious!”

“Yeah, so maybe it is evil dad, we’ll never know what wants until we investigate.” Realizing John wasn’t convinced, Stiles stared him in the eyes, dead serious while he said, “Dad, I have a feeling I know what it is, and if I’m right, which I know I am, it will only begin to cause more havoc.”

Tightening his grip on the fork, John stared into his eyes longer before sighing and slumping in his seat. Stiles wouldn’t let this go, being the stubborn little shit he was, and because of the seriousness of the situation, John would let him help. _But just this once_ , John thought, _and never again_.

Knowing he had once, Stiles smirked smugly, dodging the playful swipe his father aimed at him.

“Don’t worry Pops, I’m not gonna let you down, nor am I going to get myself killed.” Stiles teased playfully.

“Honestly son, I don’t doubt you on the first part, it’s the second part I’m skeptical about; we all know how prone to danger you are.” John shot back teasingly.

“Hey! I’m not that clumsy!”

“I beg to differ Stiles; remember when you were six and the ice-cream man came by. I’ll never forget when you-“

“We agreed we would never bring that up again!”

* * *

 

“I feel like this isn’t gonna end well.” Allison commented.

“What made you think that?” Lydia replied dryly.

The pack was stationed outside of the Stilinski home, in case something went wrong and brute force was needed. Fully armed and impatient, Allison wondered why she was needed there. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be there, she just didn’t see how her bow was going to injure an evil spirit-demon-thingy. The best she could do in this situation was offer moral support, though she doubted they would need it.

“So wait- do we just wait for something to happen?” Jackson voiced, sounding incredulous. Honestly, Allison couldn’t blame him. They would probably be much better inside the house than outside.

“Yep.” Erica said, lounging near a tree. “I believe Stiles’ exact words were ‘Don’t move, don’t go in; just leave it to me’.”

Resigning herself to more waiting, Allison plopped herself down next to Scott. She had no doubt that the Sheriff and Stiles would be okay, but it would bring her more comfort if she knew that they had one of the wolves with them.

“Hey, they’ll be alright,” Scott whispered into her hair, wrapping an arm around her. “The Sheriffs has his guns and Stiles has his magic.”

Nodding, she let herself cuddle into his warmth. For now they would wait.

* * *

 

Treading carefully, Stiles kept his eyed locked on the storage door. He would have to wrench it open and be prepared for all hell would break loose. His father had taken up position behind him, gun cocked and loaded, aimed at the door. For now, they were procrastinating, waiting to see if the door would open or if the creature inside would react in any way.

Edging closer, he let his hand curl around the door knob, resolutely ignoring the shiver that crawled up his spine.  Twisting excruciatingly slowly, Stiles flung the door open, stumbling back at the sight that greeted.

Sitting in the corner, hunched in on herself, Maria Casola’s vacant eyes stared back at him, unseeing. Her complexion was starch pale, and her once beautiful eyes had become an endless pool of black. She had yet to move from her position.

When Stiles took a tentative step forward, the moment of stillness ended; she flung her body forward, clinging to him. Her finger nails clawed at his skin and she seemed to mouth words that Stiles could just barely make out.

“The flower house!” She screeched. “The flower, blood- Shrake!”

With a final burst of energy, she bit his shoulder hard, invoking a yell from Stiles, and clung on to him, as though letting go would kill her.

“Stiles!” John yelled, running forward when his son was knocked down to the ground. Aiming the gun, he shot. The bullet ripped through her shoulder, causing her to shriek before scrambling into the nearest room. What surprised John the most was the blood trail she left in her wake.

Helping Stiles up, they clambered into the room just in time to see her fling herself out the window and vanish in a swirl of dust.

“Was that-?” John let his question trail, unbelieving of what he had just seen.

“Yeah,” Stiles croaked. “That was Maria Casola.” His hand gripped at the bite wound on his shoulder, and at her blood coating his clothes. “And I think I know where she’s going.”

“How- Stiles, she’s meant to be dead!”

“Technically she is dead,” He answered smartly. “Dad, I’ll explain after we check the storage for more evidence.”

“Technically?!”

* * *

 

“Was that a gun shot?” Boyd asked, eyes glued to the house in front of him.

The rest of the pack were at the door, claws elongated and half changed. Allison was poised to shoot and Lydia had placed a hand on her gun.

Cocking his head to the side, Derek sniffed the air. His nose wrinkled when he smelt blood, but he was relieved to know that it was nether Stiles’ or John’s.

“We’re going in.” Derek ordered, nodding sharply at the pack.

Pushing the door open, they spread out, checking the rooms before venturing upstairs. The splatter of blood against the wall worried him, even though he knew that they weren’t injured. The Storage door was open but it was empty and Derek peered into Stiles’ room sighing in relief when he caught sight of John. The man looked confused and stressed, worrying the bedsheets between his fingers.

When Derek cleared his throat, John glanced up sharply, one hand resting over his gun, before it dropped at the sight of a familiar face.

Patting the spot beside him, John attempted a smile, though he supposed it came out as more of grimace.

“You okay?” Derek kept his voice low, noting that Stiles was in the bathroom, judging by the sound of water.

“Yeah,” John sounded tired. Huffing, he rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. “Just saw something I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to see.” John remembered Maria Casola’s vacant eyes and clawing nails, biting at his son like a rabid dog. He remembered the rush of fear that had coursed through him like lightning, and how without a thought, his gun had shot at someone who had been an innocent living, breathing person.

“Tell me about it.” Derek grumbled, thinking back to all the fights he’d ever been in.

They lapsed back into a comfortable silence, each caught up in their own memories. The bathroom door opened and Stiles came. The blood previously coating his face was gone, but some still remained on his clothes.

Derek’s nose wrinkled at the foul smell that could only be described as rotten eggs. He guessed it had something to do with the blood staining Stiles’ t-shirt. Something about it stunk of death, and Derek found himself wondering what just exactly went down here, and if maybe someone had died- the lack of body spoke for itself though.

“Derek,” Stiles voiced, surprised. “You heard the gun shot?” He padded over to them and settled next to John.

“Could you call in the pack?” Stiles asked.

“No need, we’re here.” The whole pack was suddenly there, with Lydia being the one who spoke up. She sauntered in to the room and settled down on a chair.

It was silent while Stiles got his thoughts sorted. Finally, he settled on explaining the case to them, before telling them what had happened in the house.

“So is she like a zombie?” Isaac asked.

“In a way, yes,” Stiles answered. “But that’s only because she’s dead but not really.”

“That literally makes no sense.” Jackson huffed.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed sheepishly. “I think I know where she’s going though, and I’m betting Roland Shrake is also going to be there.”

John glanced up sharply. “Shrake? What does he have to do with this?”

“Okay, so, I haven’t told you everything about the ritual behind this.” Stiles said. “The ritual is done using a corpse. Usually the corpse has to be killed by the castor, or by suicide, either way works. When dead, the corpse is laid in the blood of the castor and its own blood. The basics of this ritual means you have to bind yourself with the corpse, meaning you soul is tied to it.”

“That’s,” Allison blanched, her face twisted in horror. “So disgusting! Why would anyone do that?”

Realization slowly dawned on John; the ritual and with Shrake being the prime suspect, they all added up. “You think Shrake is behind this?”

“Yes.” Stiles confirmed. “She also mentioned ‘Flower house’, which I assume means her flower shop because she was a florist.”

“If she’s tied to him, how did she tell you about the flower shop?” Derek asked. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want us knowing.”

“It was in broken English, and she couldn’t form full sentences, but from what I can guess, he’s probably not as fully tied to her as he thinks; you would need to be a full fledge mage to do that spell properly.” Stiles answered. “Human blood isn’t strong enough to fully control her.”

“Does the ritual involve anything else?” Erica sked.

“Just reciting a bunch of mumbo-jumbo in Latin, you know, the usual.” Stiles said dismissively.

“So… are we going to go and kill some not-zombies or what?”

* * *

 

It was eerily quiet and dark in her shop, so much so that Stiles was begin to suspect they may have fallen into a horror with him realizing. It was even creepier when he caught sight of wilted flowers and mirrors covered in thick layers of dust. The shop bell had given a hollow ding when they had pushed the door open, providing more creepiness.

Maneuvering through large flower pots, Stiles tried to spot something off, like blood or weird doors that didn’t belong. And lo and behold, as though lady fate had heard his thought, Stiles spotted dry blood coating a daisy.

Flowing the trail of blood covered Flowers, Stiles kind of didn’t want to be there anymore. He was all for throwing himself head first into murder cases and magical disturbances, but when it came to dark, quiet, and creepy, he wasn’t a big fan. And it wasn’t because he was afraid, it unsettled the magical aspect of him. Magic thrived and lived, being in places devoid of life and colour made him nervous, so much so that he tried to avoid them at all costs.

Venturing in further, Stiles sent a quick text to the pack, telling them to follow a blood trail. He got affirmatives just a second later. Pushing a dead flower out of the way, Stiles came to a stop in front of the back door. There was blood on the door, and Stiles wondered why no one had bothered trying to check this place after her death.

Pushing the door open, Stiles heard shuffling behind him, no doubt it was the pack. Surveying the little garden around, his eyes widened at the side of a large glass greenhouse. He didn’t doubt that it was being enough to perform a ritual in.

Flicking his eye around, he caught no sight of human life outside, though he still kept his eyes focused. Peering into the greenhouse, Stiles couldn’t make out anything except for plants. Pushing the door open proved futile, so Stiles pushed with his shoulder, grunting lowly when it creaked open.

It resembled a jungle to Stiles, all wild and untamed. Mother Nature had truly taken it back with vigor. The dome ceiling was covered in vines and leaves, only letting in snippets of moon light. Plants curled around the walls and benches, bundled up into one giant group. Every plant was entangled with each other; a mass of green that Stiles had trouble navigating through. Some plants had grown so large they pushed through the walls, curling around the outside like clothing. The ground was muddy, and judging by the shattered windows and slowly collapsing roof, the greenhouse wouldn’t last much longer. 

Something banged in front of him, and Stiles stilled, body freezing instinctively. Cautiously peering through the shrubbery, he grinned in victory at the sight in front of him. There, crouched on the ground near a bench, was exactly the man he had been looking for: Roland Shrake.

“Is that…?” John whispered against his ear, looking at the dirty man over his shoulder.

Stiles nodded, not speaking in fear that it would alert Shrake, who continued on with whatever he was doing, oblivious to the pack of deadly wolves, a mage, a hunter and a banshee behind him.

 Something scuffled around near Shrake, and Stiles realized that it was Casola rummaging around in the mud. She was chained to a low hanging metal rod. In the moon light, she almost looked blue to Stiles, eerily reminding him of Gollum. Ridding himself of those thoughts, Stiles crept forward stealthily, crouching low so he would look smaller and be shrouded in shadows. Inching closer, he caught sight of the ritual markings on the ground. They were wonky, and the circle looked less round and more oval, and it was clearly amateur work, it was testament to why the bond had not fully worked.

Stiles watched as Shrake bustled around, fiddling with guns and occasionally snapping at Casola to quit moving around so much.

“Call the cops,” Stiles whispered to his dad. “I’ll handle Casola. You guys handle Shrake.”

Cocking his gun, Stiles aimed at Shrake’s foot. He’d make this easier on the pack and take away his mobility. Pressing lightly on the trigger, Stiles leaned forward before shooting.

Shrake screamed in shock and pain, tumbling to the ground. His eyes flicked around wildly, and while he was on the ground, Scott and Isaac took the opportunity to hold him down. Shrake was faster however, and nicked a knife from nearby, slashing wildly at the two wolves and managing to cut Isaac.  

From her perch, Allison strung an arrow and shot at Shrake’s hand. The arrow pierced through his hand and bound him to the ground. He howled in pain, tugging at his hand violently.

“You’re only going to make it worse you idiot.” Allison huffed under her breath, annoyed at having to use her bow. Jumping down swiftly, she walked over to the immobile man and yanked the arrow, unwilling to show mercy to someone so sick.

 _Serves you right asshole,_ she thought, _using an innocent women’s body for your own selfish uses._

* * *

 

Ignoring the fight behind him, Stiles ran to Casola, kneeling in front of her abruptly. She screeched loudly, scampering back so she wouldn’t touch him. Her hand tugged at the chain in an effort to escape. Having none of that, Stiles held his hands up in a placating gesture, hoping to appease her. He needed to get closer to her so that he could sever the tie between her and Shrake. He would have to pin her, but it just didn’t seem right to him.

While thinking of an idea, something glinted in his peripheral vision, and he realized it was the knife Shrake had previously used. It was a bad idea and everything about it felt wrong, but if she continued to screech and thrash around, he would need to do it.

“I’m so sorry,” He whispered to her in remorse, before he slammed the knife into her chest and pinned her to the ground. Her renewed shrieking felt like a strike to his heart because of how much she reminded him of all the people he had killed under the Nogitsune’s influence. He let her claw at him, scratching him sharply; it was the least he could let her do.

Forcing his wrist to her mouth, Stiles felt her bite, unknowing of what would happen if she took in too much. Her teeth stung but he continued forward, forcing her to drink more of his blood. The drinking aborted suddenly, and she shrieked, thrashing around with renewed vigor. Taking out his smaller knife, Stiles made a small incision on her wrist and let his own blood drip into the cut. She screamed louder, and her body bucked up, looking to escape the pain Stiles knew was coursing through her. Slowly, her body disintegrated, and as though she had gained some sanity, she placed a slowly disappearing hand over the shoulder she’d bitten, right where the scar would be.

“I’m so sorry.” She croaked, and he was surprised to see her eyes water lightly before she disintegrated completely.  

 Left staring at the remains of her body, which was just sand. “What are you sorry for?” he couldn’t help but ask.

The heavy silence was broken by police sirens, and the pack hid, ducking behind some plants. Tugging at his arm, John helped a motionless Stiles up and behind a plant. Soon the police were barging in, surrounding Shrake and handcuffing him.

“You’re under arrest, you have the right to remain silent!” His father’s partner shouted.

“She deserved it!” Shrake grinned maniacally. “Just another pawn in our game!”

“Silence!” His father’s partner jabbed Shrake’s back with the gun sharply, indicating he would open fire should Shrake say more.

Peering over the plant, Stiles saw his father conversing with an officer, telling them an intricate story of how Shrake had cornered him in his own home and had tried to fight him and run, but john had managed to trace him back here and subdue him. It was amusing, in a way, to see his own father, the fucking sheriff, lie to the very people he worked with. Stiles honestly wouldn’t have though his father had it in him, but once again, he was proven wrong.

* * *

 

Now, seating in his dad’s car, telling him everything, Stiles was even more confused.

“So you severed the tie by giving her your blood?” John asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. “For the bond to work, you’re meant to mix your blood with the corpses, but it only works with two people, you can’t have an army of corpses and one guy. So if another’s blood is consumed by the corpse, it cancels out the bond, causing the corpse to disintegrate and the caster to lose all power.”

“Why did Shrake even do it in the first place?”

“I’m not sure,” Stiles frowned, forehead creasing with worry. “He said she was just another pawn in their game, but I don’t know who they are. Casola also said sorry to me when she touched my scar, but I don’t think she meant sorry for biting me, it was sorry for something else. I don’t how he got out of jail though, and how he managed to kill her with so much expertise.”

“Well this is confusing.” John sighed.

“Tell me about it.”

It was confusing and frustrating not knowing what was going on, and Stiles was sick of being in the dark. Everything felt off, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually find some answers. This whole case itself had been exhausting, and he kind of just wanted to go to sleep and forget everything. But all thoughts of sleep aside, if something bigger was going on, then he would need to be prepared.

Absentmindedly touching the scar on his shoulder, he felt a rush of trepidation course through him. His life was honestly never going to be easy and simple, and it was all because of those stupid old coots. If they hadn’t sent him here, maybe none of this would have happened. But even though he griped on about this, Stiles knew that meeting the pack had probably been one of the greatest things that had ever happened to him. And he also knew that trouble had a knack for finding him, no matter where he hid.


	11. Wholly Uncomfortable Chest Pats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack have a day out after Stiles is on the dumps after a confusing nightmare. But during the day out, something happens. The dream is meant to be confusing, by the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long. This isn't that long of a chapter, but I've been really busy lately, but I promise, I'm not gonna become an author who leaves their story for a year, though you can't judge someone without good reason. I hope you enjoy it, There's not much action, I just needed to get it going along so I could get to the more intense part. The girl in this chapter is important to the story. Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, nor do I make any profit from this story

_“I’m so sorry” **Why are you sorry?**_

_“Just another pawn in our game!” What game? **What are you talking about?** _

**_Whose game are we in, and why does it feel like I’m the center of it?_ **

_Suddenly, the world shifted, and he was in the greenhouse again, kneeling on the ground. He was drenched in blood. It coated his hands and face, running rivers down his clothes. There hadn’t been this much blood when he was kneeling next to Casola, so why was there now?_

_A familiar grip on his shoulder jarred him into the present- was it the present? It was Casola, her dainty hand grasping his shoulder, her gaunt features standing out starkly against the muddy ground. Her vacant eyes were pools of black, sucking him in and bleeding into the white of her eyes. Slowly, her features changed. Her short hair grew longer, the colour transforming into a bright gold that spread around her like a halo. Her eyes swirled from black to blue to red before settling on a striking green. A green he was hauntingly familiar._

_Dark red lips curled into a kind smile and those lovely green eyes lit with fondness. Sitting up slowly, her other hand rested against his cheek and her lips smacked a kiss upon his cold skin. Somehow, he knew it had left a mark. But when she leaned back, instead of dark red lipstick, he saw dark blood drip from her lips. They shined in the moonlight, and he found himself hard-pressed to look away. As though sensing his inability to move, she smiled, and instead of perfect pearly white teeth, he was gifted with the sight of glass shards in place of where teeth should have been. They were jagged and misplaced, stained and rusty. Her hand, still cupping his cheek, sharpened, raking down his cheek and letting blood fall free. It stung, but nothing like the pain constricting his heart._

_Resting her head upon his shoulder, she whispered quietly, “Oh, Stiles, look how you’ve grown! Not much of child now are you? But then again, how can a monster like you even be classified as a human, much less a child?” His breathing stuttered, but she continued ruthlessly, warm breath ghosting over his ear. “You saved me that day, but I seldom felt safe around you. Your eyes would turn black, and I would find you standing outside my door, smiling sinisterly. Remember when you finally killed me? Shoved the knife so far into my chest it pinned me to the ground. I thought you were a hero. Little did I know that you would be the one to take my life.”_

_Ripping himself away violently, he tumbled to the ground, eyes stuck to the woman in front of him. Her words were like a knife to the gut. Sharp and painful, making him want to squirm away and hide from them. Why had she bought them up now? Just when he was plagued with the picture of an immobile Maria Casola, pinned to the ground with a blade through her. This woman, who Stiles remembered scarily well, constantly haunted his dreams with her sharp words and angelic features. She was the first time he had drowned himself in sorrow. The first time he had killed with the Nogitsune’s raspy voice whispering in his ears. He’d saved her, only to be the one to take her life._

_Placing a bloody hand on his chest, she leant forward, eyes bleeding into brown and hair shortening. Her face become more masculine, and he remembered this face with stark clarity. This person, however, did not speak, nor did they smile like the woman before had. This man simply stared, blank eyes watching him with no judgment or feeling._

_Neither moved._

_The man continued to sit silently, but Stiles didn’t expect the man to say anything. No, this man wouldn’t say anything. This man hadn’t said anything when Stiles had taken his life, and he wasn’t expected to say anything now. This man wasn’t anyone close to him, so Stiles didn’t have that connection to this man that he’d had with the woman before._

_Slowly, the man lifted a hand rigidly and set it on Stiles’ shoulder, his movements reminding Stiles of a robot; stiff and mechanical. The man’s grip tightened, and he whispered lowly, “The scar will bleed when the day comes.” He then proceeded to bite exactly where Maria had bit, and Stiles let out a bloodcurdling scream._

Throwing himself off the bed, Stiles heaved, eyes wide and face stark white. The dream- or nightmare, it definitely seemed more like a nightmare- played on repeat like movie in his mind. Their words washed over him like a tsunami, barraging him with more questions. None of it made sense, but little usually did when you were Hieronim ‘Stiles’ Stilinski.

Wrenching himself off the floor, Stiles stumbled out the dark room and into the hallway. He expected someone to have woken up from his noise, but no one came out of their room, and for that, he was grateful. He didn’t want the pack or his father seeing him like this; completely and utterly wrecked from a nightmare.

Reaching the bottom step of the stair, Stiles swayed absentmindedly before deciding that it was in his best interest to sit down before he toppled over and became a splat on the floor. Hunching forward, he buried his face into his hands and let his eyes slide shut. The nightmare played out behind his eyelids, and Stiles immediately opened them again, feeling nauseous as he saw the woman and Maria all over again, as well as the robot-like man. He could almost see the blood staining his hands and clothes, a constant reminder of how many he had killed.  

Shaking his head roughly, Stiles banished those thoughts from his mind and instead focused on the other aspects of the nightmare. Somethings just didn’t add up.

What bothered him the most was the fact that he had dreamt of the first woman. She hadn’t been in his nightmares for quite some time, and to see her now, whispering everything that he had tried to forget… it was horrifying. The truth in her words struck him like knives. He would never forget her face and voice and everything because he had been the one to rip it all away.

The man, however, was a mystery. He could understand the woman, but the man boggled him. He hadn’t known the man personally, in fact, Stiles could say with absolute certainty that he probably would have forgotten the man were it not for the nightmares he had had as a child. Something else that boggled him was what the man had said: _‘the scar will bleed when the day comes’._ Stiles knew it had something to do with the bite mark Maria had left on him.

“You’re thinking pretty loudly.”

It was Peter. Stiles gave the other man a weak smile, but judging by Peter’s concerned expression, it probably didn’t look all that much like smile.

“I should put a bell on you wolves; you rarely make any noise,” Stiles said roughly as Peter dropped down next to him.

The silence reigned over before Stiles sighed dramatically, plopping his head uncaringly on Peter’s shoulder. The older man stiffened briefly before relaxing.

“You wanna know what’s wrong, don’t you?” Stiles asked bluntly.

Peter didn’t miss a beat, retorting with, “Why else do you think I came and sat here with you, wasting my precious beauty sleep?”

Smiling lightly at the snark, Stiles sagged even more against Peter, letting the Alpha take his admittedly light weight. Peter responded in kind, nuzzling his hair and nudging him lightly. They sat in companionable silence, but Stiles knew Peter was patiently waiting for him to explain why he was sitting on the stairs in the middle of the night, shivering uncontrollably. Though Stiles hadn’t noticed he was shivering before.

“It was just a nightmare,” Stiles admitted shyly. “Nothing to be afraid of, I just freaked out a bit.”

“Stiles, people don’t freak out that much from nightmares unless they’re terrified,” Peter said gently. “What happened in the nightmare?”

Frowning, Stiles felt like Peter would make a big deal out of something that shouldn’t have been a big deal. Mind made, he decided that he would keep this to himself and that the pack did not need to know. One less problem to deal with.

“Stiles?” Peter prodded softly.

“It was about the people I had killed under the Nogitsune’s influence.”

“Oh,”

“Yeah,”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Nodding next to him, Peter quieted. Silence reigned over once more, but this time, it felt tenser than before. Stiles knew hiding things from Peter could be disastrous but every time something went wrong and it involved him, other people got hurt. This time it would be different though, this time, Stiles would deal with the problem all on his own, without involving anyone else.

Suddenly, Peter spoke up. “I’m thinking we should all take a break today, maybe go to a park or something. God knows how long I’ve been badgered about it.”

It was a small attempt at lightening the mood, but Stiles could appreciate it all the same. 

“Trying to appease the children, Peter?” Stiles teased, waggling a finger at Peter mock-accusingly

Peter smirked, playing along. “Who says this is for the children? Maybe I just want some time away from the scoundrels.”

Stiles chuckled lightly. “They do act like children sometimes, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed. “They make me feel old.”

“Aren’t you old, though?”

 _Smack!_ “Ow!”

“You really should think before you speak; I’m the Alpha around here.”

“Abuse!” Stiles crowed.

“What abuse? If anything, you guys treat me like I’m your slave.”

“Lies!”

“Quiet down, you’ll wake the whole house.”

“Well whose fault would that be?”

“Yours.” Peter replied simply.

“Hey!”

Still smiling, Peter heaved himself off the floor before helping Stiles up. Patting the younger boy on the shoulder, he couldn’t help but feel as though there was something Stiles wasn’t telling him. He had definitely heard Stiles’ heart stutter a bit, but unless Stiles came to him, Peter would respect his privacy, albeit reluctantly.

“Get some sleep,” Peter said. “You’re gonna need your full energy when we’re dealing with the children.”

Stiles smirked. “Correction; you’re gonna need your full energy, cause technically, I’m still a kid.” Laughing at Peter stunned face, Stiles bounced away, feeling much lighter. Just as he was reaching the top of the stairs, Stiles heard Peter murmur, “Smartass.”

Left in Stiles’ wake, Peter frowned, imagining the hell he was going to face in a few hours. Was it too late to back out? Sighing heavily, Peter trudged up the stairs, less excited than before.

* * *

 

“This is gonna be great!” Allison cheered, setting her sunglasses over her eyes and hooking her arm through Scott’s. Behind them, Derek sighed again as Erica badgered him to let her use his sunglasses, the cool one Derek always wore when out with his biker gang.

Outside the car, John placed his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and frowned. “You’re going to call me if something goes wrong, right?”

“Yeah, dad,” Stiles sighed long-sufferingly, but the smile threatening to bloom assured John that Stiles wasn’t too fed up with him.

“And you’re gonna keep safe, right?”

“Dad, I’m a full-fledged mage. I’ve protected myself from worse things than roller coasters and cotton candy.”

“Stiles,” John repeated sternly, and Stiles sighed again before nodding seriously.

“I’ll be safe. If anything goes wrong, I’ve got Peter and the pack to back me up.”

“Okay, good.”

Suddenly drawing Stiles in for a hug, John gripped him tightly before pressing a quick kiss to his head and rushing off, leaving a stunned Stiles in his wake. Smiling softly, Stiles waved at his dad before hopping unto the bus.

“So,” Lydia piped up. “Why are we going to the park?” She arched an eye brow questioningly at Peter.

“Because I need some free time that doesn’t involve getting mauled at, and you guys are coming because I can’t leave you in the house alone.” Peter responded, not once looking up from his book.

“I didn’t see you as a theme park kind of guy,” Erica smirked.

Peter looked up without raising his head and answered back nonchalantly. “I’m not, but I don’t think you guys would have much fun in a cemetery talking to dead people.”

“Point taken.” Erica pouted. 

“Just one question,” Isaac chipped in. “Why is Derek going with us? Isn’t he old enough to be left alone?”

After hearing his name Derek had tuned in and was nodding along with Isaac. He was sure that Peter would have left him at home, given the fact that Derek’s middle name was ‘brood’, and that usually didn’t go in the same sentence as ‘theme park’.

“Okay, two things. One; Derek is my Beta, I need him around. And two; he’ll probably trash the house worse than all you guys combined.” Peter explained, ignoring Derek’s vehement protests that he was perfectly capable of looking after the house. “Face it, Derek, you don’t know that first thing about cleaning a house, or cooking food.”

Derek’s protests weakened before dwindling away into half-hearted mumbling. Peter made a good point. Derek had only ever been alone in the house once and he had almost set it on fire trying to cook. Didn’t mean it made him any less responsible.

Seeing Derek sulking, Stiles reached over and patted the older man’s shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sure Peter wouldn’t be any better. I walked in on him burning toast just the other day.”

Peter squawked before turning away and, despite his later protests, pouting. His cheeks flushed under the pack’s laughter. Stiles obviously couldn’t keep anything to himself! The nerve of him!

“At least I help in the mornings,” Peter retorted. “Unlike some people who do nothing but drool and sleep.” He sent a pointed glare to the rest of the pack.

“We need to pick up Danny,” Jackson suddenly announced. “His mom’s out of town so he wants to hang out.”

“Alright,” Peter turned up ahead to face Boyd. “We pick Danny, go get some food, and then theme park.”

Boyd nodded silently, though that was nothing new.

* * *

 

“Oof!” Stiles grunted as yet another person bumped into him. He’d been bumped into so many times that Stiles felt like his body was bruised. He was too skinny for this.

People milled around him, children, adults, the elderly, all shoving their way through. The Theme Park was particularly crowded today, not enough to be overbearing but enough for everyone to bump into someone at least once.

In front, Danny and Jackson argued about who was supposed to pay for the cotton candy, while Erica and Lydia idled around, trying on sunglasses in a nearby stand. Allison and Scott were off being love-y dove-y and riding on a couples ride. God knows where Derek and Isaac had wondered off to. Boyd was talking to Peter, and it seemed as though Stiles was the only one alone.

Popping another piece of cotton candy into his mouth, Stiles absentmindedly strolled through the park, looking for a decent ride to go on. It still came as a surprise that Beacon Hills had a Theme Park. It was fairly big, though not what Stiles would call huge, and it had a few over the top rides and a few moderately fun ones; nothing too expensive. He spotted the Skull Crusher- who the fuck names a rollercoaster ‘Skull Crusher’?! They were already scary enough without the unsettling name- in front of him, and in a fit of courage, Stiles decided that he could do this.

Popping the last bit of cotton candy into his mouth, Stiles determinedly marched to the fairly short line before he could back out and convince himself that the Loop de Loop was a much more suitable choice.

Boarding the rollercoaster, Stiles glanced down as the roller coaster ascended to the peak. It creaked to a stop, he peeked over the edge to see if he could spot the pack, and yep, there they were, small dots in the distance. Suddenly, the rollercoaster tipped forward.

Stiles whooped, screaming in delight at the weightless and rush. It felt like all his troubles were lifted, nothing on his mind except for the excitement he felt. The nightmares were in the furthest part of his mind, and he felt a rush of appreciation for Peter. The man had obviously felt the overhanging tension and dreadful mood hanging around the pack, more specifically Stiles, and had probably decided that fun was in order; Peter never did something without a reason.

After a couple of exhilarating minutes, the roller coaster slowed to a stop and Stiles stumbled out. He took two shaky steps forward and bumped into a girl with pretty long brown hair. She flinched back, her hand coming out in front of her and grabbing his hoodie for balance.

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” Stiles stammered sheepishly. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The girl sent him a slight smile, and Stiles startled; she reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. “It’s alright,” The girl said, placing a hand on his chest. Stiles sent her an uncomfortable smile and stepped back. Patting his chest again, she flounced off.

“Well that was weird,” Stiles murmured under his breath. Shrugging the weird encounter off, he met up back with the pack, the strange encounter gone.

* * *

 

“How long do you think it’ll take for him to figure it out?” A voice asked.

“He’s a smart man,” Another voice answered. “Probably a month or two. I don’t think he’ll quite know everything though.”

“Smart man, indeed,” The first voice hummed. “Well, we’ll just have to see.”

* * *

 

“Hey guys,” Stiles called out, catching the pack’s attention. “What are you guys doing?”

Stiles watched in confusion as Erica scowled at Isaac, who shrugged sheepishly with a slight flush across his face. “We’re trying to clean the ice-cream Isaac dropped on me,” She snapped, sending a vicious glare towards the cowering wolf. “So far, it hasn’t been going well.”

Giving another harsh swipe at the mess on her shirt, Erica huffed in annoyance.

“If I could help you, I would,” Stiles said sympathetically. Now that he thought about it, ice-cream did sound pretty good. Beacon Hills was stuck in the throes of a bad summer, and Stiles would do anything to have some ice-cream. It probably hadn’t been a good idea to wear hid hoodie today.

“I’m gonna go get ice-cream, any of you want some?” Stiles asked, flinching a little at Erica’s incredulous gaze; of course she wouldn’t want ice-cream after that incident.

Counting the number of people who had said yes, Stiles reached for his wallet, only instead of smooth leather, he was met with paper. Quickly taking it out, Stiles unfolded it, eyes widening at the words written starkly on the paper.

_The Spark of Haven, Lend us your Almighty Blood, and we shall spare the Pack_

Crumpling up the paper, Stiles shoved it back into his pocket, ignoring Peter’s questioning look. Shoving a hand back into his pocket, he realized something else; his wallet was gone. Everything. His money, his cards, his I.D, his ring; all of it, just gone.

Suddenly, he understood.

The girl. She was a part of this.


	12. Reopened Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff... Super Super vague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gone for years, I know. Let me explain. I went through a severe case of writers block (fucking writers block, am I right?). And then my whole piece of writing vanished into like thin air, and I am ashamed to admit I put this off. I know, it's been like 2 months, and I feel like shit. I just couldn't find it in myself to update. But I am back. So yeah.......

The plaster in the corner of the room was doing nothing for her raging emotions. She had been on autopilot the moment her eyes had caught his face. The face that had haunted her dreams for years, and the heavy surge of regret had yet to leave her. It was stupid to feel regret now, after nearly a decade, but no matter how many times she told herself that this was what she wanted, her mind would go back to him. She knew it was irrational to feel ashamed of herself because she had nothing to feel ashamed of- 'liar' her mind whispered, but she banished that thought. She had done what she thought had been right, there was no going back.  

Heaving a sigh, she stood up. The foul stench of rot clogged up her nose, and she gagged, shielding her nose with her hand. Best not to breathe for now. 

Rushing outside, she let herself breathe and think about how much it would hurt him to realize that she was on the opposing side. She could give up now, let herself surrender to the other side, do some good before she died- and she would die. She didn't think he would take her back easily. Even with all the love and support he had given, he'd never take her back when she'd betrayed him.

Family was everything. And she'd taken family and torn herself from it, because she didn't think they would benefit her at all. Letting out a rueful chuckle, she let herself slump to the ground. He would never take her back, and she didn't blame him; not one bit. 

* * *

The slump of Stiles' shoulders told Peter that he was thinking. He could tell because when Stiles did anything; he moved. He moved rapidly, making signs with his hands, or taping his foot, or twitching his facial muscles in any which way. He just couldn't sit still. The only time Peter had seen the boy still perfectly was when he had been slumped on the stairs, and even then, Stiles had been in deep thought.

Now, Peter could clearly see Stiles was lost in his own head. The boy's body might have been still, but his mind was working ten times harder than it usually was.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Peter settled deeper into the stiff police chair. They had driven straight to the sheriff department after Stiles' shock had faded. He hadn't stopped to tell the pack anything, barging into John's office and slamming the door behind him before any of the pack could even think to walk in after him. Only after an hour had he come out and explained his predicament. To anybody else, it might have seemed like a normal pick-pocket, were it not for the ominous yet slightly blunt message.   

Burrowing deeper into the chair, paying no attention to the plastic digging into his back, Peter allowed himself to speculate. Obviously there was a group that wanted Stiles for his Spark blood. What they wanted it for, Peter couldn't be too sure. To be honest, he wasn't exactly sure about the extent of damage Stiles' Spark blood could do. The message had made it sound like Stiles' blood would help them take over the world. Maybe it could, Peter wouldn't push that idea aside as stupid. Nothing was entirely stupid in their world. 

It seemed that he would have to educate himself on the ways of magic and blood magic. Punching out a sigh, Peter straightened, thinking back to his initial thoughts about getting an emissary. He'd been skeptical, unwilling to believe that a boy so young could be powerful enough. It was only when Deaton had warned about the reason Stiles was coming that Peter had started to believe. No one would be banished for 2 years if they had committed some petty crime. No... Stiles had done something serious, and whether it involved killing someone, or stealing an ancient treasure, Peter would not judge him. Stiles had helped them, despite being here for a scarce few days. Some part of Peter still felt weary around him though, knowing the kind of powered he harbored deep within.   

Peter grinned wryly; despite the slight weariness, he had grown fond of the spastic boy. He just wished someone had told him beforehand about the amount of trouble Stiles caused where ever he went. A loud call shook him from his thoughts.  

"Oi, Creeper Wolf, it's getting kinda creepy with you staring at me like that." In front of him Stiles had twisted around in his chair, staring with one eyebrow arched. Peter could see Stiles' lip twitch slightly. 

"I can't exactly say the view is bad," Peter grinned lecherously before winking. Stiles gaped at him, lips closing and opening like a fish, before he let out a loud, happy bark of laughter. Satisfied that he had cheered Stiles up, Peter stood up and stretched, groaning as his joints popped. He could feel Stiles' eyes trailing down his body and before Peter could tease him some more, the door of the waiting room opened and in came his pack.    

"You guys can flirt some other time," Derek tossed the take out bag to Stiles, uncaring of his flailing to catch it. "Sheriff says they have a finger print and a few suspects. You might have to describe the girl to the sketch artist." He directed the last part to Stiles. The bright mood in the room dimmed at the reminder of their predicament. 

Stiles slumped once again. He set the bag onto the table and stood up, walking silently out of the room. The pack stared after him, no one brave enough to follow.

"Was it something I said?" Derek asked dryly. Peter let out a weak chuckle.

"I'm sure he's just got a lot on his mind and needs some time to sort things out." 

* * *

John set his paper work to the side, not in the mood to finish it, and instead thought of his son. His son who had barged into his office, serious and quiet, something Stiles rarely was, and then proceeded to tell him about his encounter. In any other case, John would have written it off as some strange girl stealing, but the message unsettled him. He didn't know what a 'Spark' was, but if it involved Stiles, surely it was nothing good.

Someone knocked at his door, and John straightened. "Come in."

It was Stiles, surprisingly. John thought his son would have been off looking for clues, but the boy looked strangely sullen and more than a little frustrated. Stiles flopped down in front of him, arms crossed over his chest; he gave off the attitude of someone burdened. 

"What is it, Stiles?" John asked. He had hoped that Stiles would come to him, another step in renewing their trust and relationship. His son hesitated, clearly unsure of what to say, so John gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It seemed to have worked because Stiles spoke, voice low. 

"Dad, I don't want you to get involved in this," John raised an eyebrow, and Stiles hurried to explain. "It isn't safe, and besides, this doesn't concern you." 

"Stiles, you are my son, it damn well concerns me," John snapped back. It was irrational to get angry, but he was the parent in this situation, no matter how many times he was reminded of the fact that Stiles had raised himself. 

Stiles' brows were drawn together, and his eyes narrowed. "You might be the parent, dad, but this is my fight. I would appreciate it you stayed out of it." 

"You are not the one who gets to decide that. I am the adult in this situation." John could see Stiles tense, a fight or flight response to this argument. He was pushing, John knew that, but he could only hear one thing in Stiles' sentence that the boy wasn't saying; 'I don't trust you with this'. 

"Age has nothing to do with this," Stiles abruptly stood up. "I just think it would be better for you to stay out of it. This isn't some normal crime that the police can solve, dad, this is bigger than that." 

"So you think I can't handle it?" It stung a bit, to know that his son thought so little of him. The hurt transformed into anger. "I'm perfectly capable, Stiles. I've been doing this for more than a decade."

"Yeah, I know, but this isn't some run-of-the-mill baddie; these guys are serious." Stiles' voice got louder. 

"Stiles, I don't want to see you get hurt." 

"I can handle myself." 

And John, before he could stop himself, let out the words he knew Stiles would get mad over. "I know what you're capable of Stiles; I raised you." 

Stiles' eyes darkened, and his previously shaking body stilled eerily. When he spoke, his voice was clear and even, but John could hear the detachment; Stiles was distancing himself from the hurt. 

"Look, Stiles, I'm sorry-" 

"Yeah," John quieted. "You did raise me. You raised me for a grand total of 8 years before you fucked it up." Stiles snarled, and John flinched as if physically struck.

"You can go on and on about how much you know me and how you raised me, but dad, you don't. You don't having a fucking clue. My abilities as an eight year old don't matter. You know why? Because I'm not eight anymore. I've been trained and taught, and I've perfected my skills! And you know who helped me? Not you! You have the gal to sit there and say you know how capable I am because you raised me, but during the most important time of my life, you weren't there! Yeah, I'm the one who ran away; I'm the one who left, but who was the one who drove me to it? You! Dad, comparing me now to my eight year old self is unfair. You have no faith in me. You don't trust me."

"I do trust you," John countered weakly.

Stiles shook his head. "No, you don't. You didn't trust me then, and you don't trust me now. You love me, I know that, but your love can only go so far."

"Stiles, I love you. You know I was grieving."

Stiles gave him an unimpressed stare. "Yeah, you were grieving, but so was I. You lost a wife, I lost a mother, but that doesn't excuse your action. You can't blame everything on her death. No, dad, you were the one who drowned yourself in whiskey instead of trying to help your eight year old son, who cooked and cleaned and tried to tell himself that this would all pass, that you would get better. You didn't though; you got worse. Did you ever think about the son you had, the son who grieved just as much as you but decided that taking care of their father was more important. It should have been the other way around! We were both supposed to give our all! And yet I was the only one trying! And then you got that call, and you didn't move on dad, not like you usually did. I get it, you were drunk and depressed, but what was even going through your mind? I was eight; she had had that illness for years! I'm trying, dad, I'm trying. You might know about my magic, but you haven't accepted it."

Stiles slumped, fight leaving him and before John could blink, he was gone, the office door swinging wildly behind him.

 _What the fuck have I done?_ John thought, despairing and with more than a little bit of guilt. 

* * *

"Well fuck." Erica stated, wide eyes staring back at the pack. They had heard all of John and Stiles' argument, though Stiles' raised voice probably made it easier for a lot of people in the department to have heard it. 

"I thought they'd settled it?" Scott asked.

"Scott, these things take time," Peter explained. "Let Stiles cool off and then we can go talk to him."  

"What about the sheriff?" 

"I think he might want to be alone to think." Peter cast a strange look towards the sheriff's office, but Erica couldn't quite put her finger on it.  

* * *

 He should have chosen some place else to sit down. The wall behind him was damp, and Stiles was sure that the puddle in the corner wasn't water. But in his fit of anger and sadness, he could only run so far before he sagged, staggering into a nearby alleyway and curling into a pitiful ball. He'd been here for approximately two minutes and the tears ran hot and wet down his cheeks. He might have been consumed by anger, but the most violent emotion was sadness. Sadness at the fact that his father didn't trust him and didn't love him enough. Sure, John- because Stiles couldn't bring himself to call him dad- hadn't outright said it, but the underlying emotions of weariness and caution spoke for itself. And while Stiles had said he had grown past it, the words from when he was eight years old came flooding back into his mind.

Oh, he was crying harder. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he had cried so earnestly.

Stiles had thought they were healing, but then John had had the gal to say he had raised Stiles, when all John had done was drive him away from the only home he'd knew. And Stiles knew that blowing up hadn't been right, had set his emotions on overdrive, but the way John had said it; as if he had been the one to help Stiles with every little problem, to pick him up at his lowest times, when really, it had been Stiles who had done it all. He picked himself up; he'd solved every problem himself; he'd held himself at night, when the nightmares of missing fingers and vacant eyes became too much. John had done nothing because he hadn't been there. Stiles could freely admit that he had made a hasty decision to run away from home, but it was a long time coming anyways; the bullying had become too much, his mother's death, the stares, the phone call. It would have happened eventually, with or without the call. John's uncaring attitude and words had just been the catalyst. It had shown Stiles that everybody who'd even had some semblance of love for him was dead. 

_Clang!_

Stiles swung around towards the noise, scampering back. In the dank alleyway, Stiles could see nothing except for numerous trash cans, meaning that  the creator of the noise was either an animal or something dangerous. Rising slowly, Stiles peered cautiously through the gap between two trash cans, and catching sight of nothing, he tentatively stepped forward.  

He couldn't sense anything. With a heavy sigh, Stiles made to turn around before suddenly, there was an arm around his neck, cutting off air. Twisting in his attacker's grip, Stiles clawed at the arm, scratching violently. Before he could think to call his powers, a heavy metal cuff was snapped around his wrist. His vision darkened around the edges, and Stiles could only gasp and claw for air before the world went dark, the arm still locked around his neck.

The feel of the cuff weighing down his wrist was the only thing Stiles could remember.    

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will vary. I don't post anything, but of you would like to know, I have a Tumblr and the information is in my profile.


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